Of Universal Gravitation & Film Majors
by amber n
Summary: After being rescued, the gang fracture and separate, never quite coming to terms with their experience. 5 years later Melissa bumps in to a familiar face.
1. 1

**Of Universal Gravitation & Film Majors**

_Blurb_: After being rescued, the gang fracture and separate, never quite coming to terms with their experience. 5 years later Melissa bumps in to a familiar face.

* * *

**1.**

**MELISSA** First one eye, and then the other. I blinked several times and looked at the ceiling. I turned towards the neon lights of my clock on the bedside table. Shit. I was late. I hated early morning starts. A part of me told me that I should get out of bed. The other said to stay. I was torn. I looked over to my roommate's sleeping form. Lucky her. I yawned and stretched and momentarily thought about skipping class. Five more minutes, maybe. I don't know. I really couldn't be bothered. Hit the snooze. I'll pretend I had period pains. Yes, ever burdened with being a woman.

The snooze goes off.

Ten minutes later and I'm back where I've started. I blinked. 

I looked at the clock. If I left now I would've only been half an hour late, which was ok because it was a two and a half hour lab. I wondered whether I had enough time to take a shower. I looked over at my roommate again, still sleeping soundly. Damn film majors and their single digit contact hours. Was she even attending college, at all? Mustering all my willpower I got out of bed. The early morning chill stung me. Who held classes at 9, anyhow? It was ridiculous. Studies had shown that the optimum time for students to think productively was somewhere closer to mid-morning and midday. I groped around in the room to find my jeans and Worland U shirt. Then I slipped on my Converse hi-tops, picked up my books, and slung on my backpack. 

I walked past the mirror on my way out and caught sight of my reflection—very attractive, Mel. I grinned wary and tired, noticing the dark circles under my eyes and my general appearance of plain-ness. Always the wallflower, I thought, before I exited the room.

Students filled Hamilton house as I was walked down the stairs and through the front doors. Greeting people I recognized and a few passing acquaintances. No time for breakfast, I was running late. I lightly jogged down the front lawn of the house, down the dip which finished at the oval, and across to the main campus. The sun was coming up, thankfully, and it was getting slightly warmer. Nevertheless, think ahead woman, bring a pullover next time. Bring a pullover _everytime_, actually.

I weaved between the various students, also late—though not so eager—to get to their classes. A rush of students met me and walked through me in the opposite direction. Annoyed, I looked back at the group as an elbow appeared from thin air and hit me on the cheek. Jerks. I hated people sometimes. It was bad enough I had absolutely no desire to be here, this early, even worse to know that I'd wake up the next day with a bruise on my cheek. I rubbed it, and continued walking, entering the Physiology building, running up the stairs and attempting to enter the back of the room inconspicuously. It was only when I had met my lab partner at our table did I realise I had forgotten my coat.

God I hated early morning starts.

**JACKSON** I catch my elbow realizing it had come in to contact with something very hard, like bone. I look back to see what it could have hit; the back of a girl, jogging, too far and indiscernible to call out an apology to. Who cares, she was the one walking against the crowd, anyway. I resume walking. The rush of people I was caught up in had dispersed. I hurry myself towards the overbearing redbrick building which had become my home for the last few months, Kent Library. Damn Honors thesis. I'm tempted to change my major again. But then that would mean prolonging my stay at Worland. Besides, I'm more concerned with scoring the internship at NBC for the summer, and doing this may boost my CV. I was pretty desperate for the Page position. Shit pay—if any—but if it was good enough for Michael Eisner, it was pretty damn good enough for me. 

Kent is only half full, because no one in their right mind is actually up this early to study in the middle of the semester. Except for fools like me who think doing an Honors thesis was some sort of wicked idea. I set my books down on a table in the corner and fish the list of books I needed from my back pocket. The stacks smell musty, as old as the university was supposedly. As old as the money a lot of the students seemed to have come from. I, on the other hand, am on a partial scholarship. How I fell in to that I still question. You know what it is, I tell myself. That whole damned ordeal still haunts me. And then she left. And suddenly school was really all you had to keep yourself level headed because in those weak moments you can't allow yourself to think of the island. You can't think of her. Hah! _Her_—what, you don't say her name anymore? Truth be told, I hadn't thought much about her except for this moment. I probably forget about her a little. The last time she infiltrated my thoughts was graduation, idle though, it was at the time. 

Then next thing I know I'm jolted out of my head when a pair of arms push me in to a darkened corner of the stacks. I know it before I see her. Tess kisses me hungrily. Her blue eyes are wild and lusty. Her hot slick tongue enters my mouth, enthusiastic, and her hands creep up my shirt. I respond in kind. We're not really together, and I don't even particularly like her as a person. She was ok, I guess. But I can't deny she knows how to treat me physically. She's pushing herself roughly up against me now and I moan in her mouth when her hands find their way down my jeans. 

I'll probably break up with her soon. I'll probably do it at the bi-annual Last Night on Earth party, or at least until I find someone new. I'm a fool; and I loathe knowing it.

* * *

**A/N**: Ok, this is my first Flight 29 Down fic, and my first fanfic since forever. I also realise that some of the references and the format are reminiscent of Ellis' **The Rules of Attraction**, but I thought it would have been an interesting premise, and a lot of these events and parties do happen at college, though perhaps not to the same self-destructive extent depicted in the novel (and subsequent film adaptation). I also won't make it as sexually explicit or drug-laced as the book. If the characters so far seem OOC, it's because they're a little older and more mature (they're in their early 20's now), and further in the story there will be an explanation for their personality developments. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this so far. Yes, this is primarily a Melissa/Jackson fic, though other characters may make cameos. 


	2. 2

**2.**

**KIM** Ok, far out, stress less. Gosh, geez, holy whatever. I slapped myself mentally; he is just a guy, right. _Right_? Get a grip on yourself Kim. Kimmy. Kimmy, Kim-Kim-Kim. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. It wasn't that I was ugly, though I wasn't ridiculously good-looking, either; but he's just so fine—all kinds of fine, with his baby face and deep blue eyes. He always looked like he was thinking about something deep, like he was deconstructing Kurosawa in relation to the philosophy of Kant, or something stupidly intellectual like that. And you remember the way he nodded in agreement when you said your piece on the relevance of auteur theory, because you could be stupidly intellectual too, if you wanted.

I turned to my side, inspecting myself in the mirror, knowing that there really was no reason to get too dressed up for Last Night on Earth, because people would be too drunk to remember whether you looked good or not.

"You look fine," my roommate tells me from her bed. She had been studying me, it seemed, behind her physics textbook.

I turned from the mirror, hopeful, "Yeah, you think so? You reckon a deep and brooding type would be receptive to this," I asked, gesturing to myself.

She seemed to have gotten a small smile as if she had remembered some private joke. She shrugged. "Who knows what those types typically go for, but you look awesome."

I nodded, of course I looked awesome. I always look awesome, right? Far out Kim, stress less. I turned back to the mirror and began fixing up my eye make-up. "Are you coming tonight?"

She shook her head prettily and held up her textbook, a scary looking thing that had lots of diagrams and letters and equations. She adjusted her reading glasses. "No rest for the diligent."

"You mean the obsessed," I snorted. "Come on Mel, you never go out. You need to unwind, seriously. You can't keep yourself cooped up in here for the rest of your degree. You're in college, live it up a little." I gave her a pointed look. She knew what I was referring to, what she was hiding from; or, more specifically, _who_.

"I want to do well in the MCAT, and I can't when I'm doing frivolous party things that frivolous college students do."

I walked over and sat on her bed. It had been a tough year for her, I knew that. "Well, I need a wingman."

She laughed. "So this was all an elaborate ruse to get someone to go as backup for you?"

I grinned, "Of course."

"And not at all because you were worried about my mental and emotional health after Greg."

"You know me too well."

She sighed and put her book down, thinking about it. She needed a night to get loose, and Last Night on Earth had a reputation for students getting loose and forgetting about their problems, just like it was, well, the last night on Earth.

After a moment of thought she finally spoke, "An hour, I'll only go for an hour or two. And then I'm gone."

I squealed and did a little dance on her bed. I pulled her by her hand towards the bathroom, "Come on, I'll do your hair."

**MELISSA** Self-conscious wasn't the word for it. I looked at Kim as we walked across the oval towards Henderson, where the party was being hosted. I hadn't been to one of these in a long time. _Pre-Greg_, a part of my mind betrayed me. I had promised myself I wouldn't think about him. It just hurt too much. Kim looked effortlessly cool. I knew she had a tendency to over-think and panic, but she always put herself together well. No, self-conscious wasn't the word, it was anxiety. It was an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was on my way to the lion's den. I shivered, more because of an uneasy foreboding feeling rather than the wind. Kim looked towards me questioningly, and I smiled reassuringly. She threw me a half-smile, unconvinced, but nodded anyway. I wondered who she was trying to impress tonight.

People milled around the house. Great, crowds, I always did well in them. When did I get so unsocial? Oh right, Greg, gotcha.

Inside it is swarming. Random snippets of conversation wafted in to my ear. The smell of booze and sex (or at least the anticipation of it) hung like a thick fog. Yes, my kind of scene, I thought a little sardonically. Kim says something to me, but I can't hear over the music and people.

I quirked my brow, "What?"

She moved in closer, "I said, I'll go get us some drinks. Where will you be?"

I spot a balcony, and the sudden need for fresh air overwhelms me. "Just outside," I answered her.

She furrowed her brows and I pointed towards the French doors. She smiled and nodded, squeezing her way towards the keg.

The cool air was a welcome respite from inside and I sat on the ledge overlooking the courtyard. Strings of fairy lights hung from one side to the other as guests laughed and chatted. People were outside on the balcony as well, socializing. I'm pretty sure I could smell weed and when I turned around Clinton from my Chemistry class had walked towards me holding a joint. I smiled.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, sitting on the ledge beside me, and greeting me with a kiss on the cheek.

"Is it such a surprise that I would be caught at _the_ social event of the year?"

He laughed, "Bi-annually."

"Been here long?" I asked.

He shook his head, holding in the smoke, and offered me the joint. I shrugged—hadn't had one of these in a while—and took it from him as he exhaled. "I've been here for about half an hour."

I took a drag and closed my eyes, not holding it in as long as Clinton had, and exhaled. "Has anything exciting happen yet?" I handed him back the joint.

He shook his head. "It's only quarter to ten." Then he looked up and beamed as Kim made her way towards us. Curious.

"Hey guys," Kim greeted us, "sorry Clint, I didn't know that you were here or else I would've gotten you a drink too." She handed me the red cup.

"It's ok, how are you anyway Kim?"

"Nervous."

"Oh really, why's that?" He offered her the joint and threw her a brilliant smile, "For your nerves."

But she shook her head. "No thanks, it's just that, you know I'm waiting for this guy."

"Oh," Clint's smile faltered ever so slightly.

I sipped from my cup and watched them. Very curious.

"Yeah, he's from my film class," Kim continued oblivious. She took a sip from her cup as her eyes darted around, surveying the crowd.

Clint nodded and ran his hand through his dark hair. He was about to say something else when someone called him over. He looked over his shoulder than back towards us. "Uh, good luck with that guy, Kim," he told her, smiling as he stood up.

Kim nodded, still looking around the crowd.

"I'll see you in class, Mel," he told me, as he leant in to kiss me on the cheek good-bye.

"Yeah, see ya."

I watched his retreating back and looked over at Kim who had a suspicious curve on her lips. "I think he likes you," she said finally.

I hid my smile behind my cup and drank some more. "Do you think that, really?"

She nodded and sat next to me. "He's pretty cute, you know, in that dropkick brilliant way."

"But of course." Kim began tapping her foot nervously, still scanning, and taking small sips from her cup. "Still not here?"

She shook her head and sighed, "Maybe he won't come."

I finished the rest of my cup, the weed kicking in ever so slightly, though not enough to really do anything to me. That's right, I planned on being a doctor and I was a social smoker. Wait, wasn't there a doctor on TV who smoked. House? I wouldn't know. I didn't watch much TV.

"Have you even spoken to him?"

"No. I know, I know, pathetic, right."

"You don't even have his name to Facestalk him?"

She shook her head. "I'm _so_ pathetic."

I patted her on the back and smiled, "Worland's pretty small, I'm sure if you go through everyone's friends list you're bound to find him."

"And, it's like, he probably doesn't even know I exist."

I was about to reassure her of her awesome-ness when I spotted him. Shit. I felt sick. "I need to go," I stuttered. And Kim looked up at the sudden change in tone of my voice.

"Wait, Mel, what's up?"

Shit. Double shit. He was here. _He_ was here. I stood up hastily and I think I started to hyperventilate. "Nothing, look, you'll be fine. I'm sorry I'm abandoning you but I thought it would be ok, but it's not. I'm not ok. I'm stupid, I—I have to go."

Kim blinked and nodded. And I walked away before she could respond.

* * *

**A/N: **I would just like to thank you for your reviews, they made my day :). Also, thank you to those who pointed out possible grammatical errors. I know there are lots of run-ons and fragment sentences. So if that's distracting you I can change it. I'm also aware, especially for Mel, I change tense a lot, that's on purpose, because I'm attempting to convey the way they think. But, again, if that's too distracting, I'm sure I can fix it up for you. Again, thanks for your reviews, it was much appreciated. Especially after I had lurked and read some of your stories but have been guilty of not reviewing. I'm only new to the fandom.


	3. 3

**3.  
**

**JACKSON **We're running late. I don't think Tess really cares, but she's getting restless. I can sense it. She's walking beside me and sighing. Why'd the damn party have to be at a house all the way on the other side of campus. I actually don't feel like making an appearance there, anymore. But there's a reason, I tell myself. Maybe I could postpone—no, I have to do it. There's something inherently dishonorable about sleeping with a girl in love with you but who you're sort of indifferent towards. At least I'm not breaking up with her via text message. Maybe I should have broken up with her in my room. That would've been the best option, actually.

_Coward_, a voice in the back of my head tells me. I quash it, knowing it spoke the truth. I was only delaying the inevitable; and the tears.

I take out my Camels from my pocket, and tap a smoke out of the carton. I light up as we walk, hooding the flame of my lighter with my hand, and she's giving me a look now and I know she knows that something's on my mind. She just didn't know that the something was her, and us. Whatever it was 'us' was—is—would cease being.

"Something's wrong," she finally says, in a mousey voice. The one she used when she was unsure about something or felt particularly vulnerable. No one hears it much, if at all. She's a confident type. I'm sure that it means something, then, that I'm the only one she uses that voice around.

I shrug and take a drag, exhaling, "No, nothing's particularly wrong."

We keep walking and the silence challenges her to push me to tell her what was keeping my thoughts occupied. But she doesn't because she knows there _is_ something wrong. And she'd rather not know. I hate her a little bit for avoiding it. I hate myself more that I could have used that opportunity to just go on and get it over with. Breaking hearts isn't easy. I snort and grin. Who the hell do I think I am? Zac Efron?

A feint thud of music reaches us and I know we're getting closer. People are on their way around us too, and others are stumbling back to their rooms in each other's arms. I check my watch, it's close to 11.

"Why do you kill your lungs like that?"

I look at Tess, walking next to me. She's quite beautiful, really, especially in the glow of the moon. Why couldn't I just be _into_ her? She was basically perfect; smashing body, long blonde hair. And she was quite intelligent, but I felt nothing. "I don't know. I picked it up one day in high school—haven't stopped since."

She nods. She looks like she wants to say something else and hesitates. I can see it on her face. Her eyes are flitting confused, and she says instead, "Addictive."

"I'd walk a mile for one," I grinned.

She only keeps walking, not realizing the reference. We get to Henderson and we walk in together, like a couple. She eases her arm around my waist possessively and I can't help but drape mine over her shoulders. She relaxes a little, probably thinking my open display of couple-ness means she has nothing to worry about concerning us. God, I'm such a jerk.

The night wears on, and I get bored socializing with people from my class. We're in somebody's room and we're listening to Broken Social Scene. They're talking about the influence of Godard now and I think I want to stab myself in the eye. I have the urge to say that I think Rambo was a bigger cinematic achievement than Kubrick's Space Odyssey, just to shake things up.

"Yes, but if we decontextualise it, bear with me now," A bespectacled sophomore contributes, "if we decontextualise it outside of purely the turn of the century Rive Gauche theories, we can see that La Chinoise is… is… purely a bourgeois manifestation of… of… his contempt for the student movement, which is in complete, which is completely oppositional to the Marxist ideology that he… he… subscribed himself to."

I wondered if he kept pausing and repeating because he wanted to appear intellectual as he attempted to grope for multi-syllabic words in his head to use. Or maybe he just had a speech impediment. I took a swig of my Corona. Good stuff. I wondered which trust-fund baby brought them tonight. Much better than the keg beer, whatever that shit was.

"But Jake, that's assuming Godard viewed the student movement as anomalous to the wider movement," Angelique countered, red curls tucked in a black beret.

"Which it would have been because students aren't necessarily the underclass, are they, which completely undermines the 'class' struggle necessary for revolution," Tess piped up beside me. She flicked her eyes towards me seeking approval. I smiled. Good point.

"And yet," this Jake guy persisted, "they are important because they… they… are part of this struggle and, are, and they exploit their… their… position as the… educated class which… which… would have been completely part of the struggle. They are part of the class struggle and therefore completely… completely integral to its… its… mobilization."

"So basically you're saying—Jake, is it?" he nodded, "You're saying Godard was a hypocrite."

"Well, not in so many words, only that certain… certain… films in his… his… oeuvre would suggest that he was not as concerned with ideology so much as… as… his role as an auteur."

Angelique rolled her eyes, "Because apparently they're mutually exclusive and directors can't be agents of their beliefs," she finished sarcastically.

Jake looked like he was about to say something else and I stood up abruptly. "I'm just going to get some fresh air," I tell them, keen to get away from their 'intellectual banter,' which was really a way for them to fellate each other's (and their own) ego and bask in their cleverness.

"Do you need company?" Tess asks from where she's sitting on the floor, doe-eyed and hopeful.

I want to say 'no' but I know I should just get it over and done with so I say instead, "Sure."

**KIM **I had the urge to go up to him and punch him. What was his business here, anyway? I knew deep down I was being unfair, as he attended Worland too, and whatever happened between him and Mel was really none of my business. But it didn't stop the desire I had to go up and punch him. Right in his nose. In his smug, little, nose that was smug and little. So smug. And little. Ok, I was drunk. God, the look of horror on Mel's face when she made her hasty departure made my stomach churn, and I looked up to see Greg walk in with Chelsea Polovski. That skank. Since when were they going out?

Now I was sitting on the front lawn of Henderson with a bottle of Moet I had stolen from Chelsea's fridge. She wouldn't notice. I'm pretty sure her dad sent them to her on a weekly basis. The night had been an epic fail. About an hour after Mel had left, and I ended up with Clinton and his friends from Chem, I was swept away with people from my film class and I look over and the object of my infatuation is talking to the DJ with Tess Palmer holding on to him like her trophy. Angelique invites me to her room where I know he's going, but I felt like a loser and declined her invitation. Even the prospect of discussing French New Wave didn't entice me enough to sit through Dream Boy get kissy-face with Tess. The sole thought of which acted as a complete deterrent.

"Hey, Kim! Are you ok?"

I tilt my head up to Clinton who was watching me with a look I can't place.

I waved my hand, "Sure." Then I think I hiccup. I cover my mouth. I look up at Clint embarrassed, but he's only smiling; probably making fun of me in his head. Well, laugh on Clinton. And you can tell your friends this story, about how you found Kimberley Cochrane on the front steps of Henderson clutching a half empty bottle of Moet, being pathetic, and 'oh-how-I-laughed,' you will say.

He comes to sit next to me, "Hey if you need someone to take you back to—"

"No, no, no, no Clint it's fine, you know? I'm fine."

He doesn't look convinced, "Are you sure? It's not out of my way. It's just at the top of the knoll on the otherside of the oval."

"Exactly, it's just there."

His friends call out to him, he looks to them then back to me. He's pretty much a gentleman, I've decided. Mel should really tap this—him—before some lady scoops him up for herself. And he really is kinda cute in a, "dropkick brilliant way."

"Huh?"

I realise I've muttered this out loud and smile sheepishly. "Nothing."

He looks like he wants to say something but is interrupted by his drunk friends again. I smile as sober as I can and reassure him. "I'm all good, go on, don't worry about me."

He sighs and nods, standing up, but I call out to him and he turns. "Can I have a smoke?"

He grins and takes one out of his pocket, and hands it to me. "Thanks," I tell him. And then he jogs down to meet his friends at the bottom of the oval. It is only after he is a speck in the darkness that I realise I didn't have a lighter. Shoot.

I look around pathetically (which seemed to be the theme of the night) for someone to save me. And then a flame appears somewhere near my left ear and I turn around to be met with a flicker of heat and baby blues regarding me curiously. I think my heart stops. I light my cigarette—Marlboro Reds, I think. Boy my lungs were going to hate me tomorrow.

He settles beside me, contemplatively, taking slow drags from his cigarette. I don't know what to say. I smoke quietly too, realizing I had drunk so much I wasn't getting the nicotine headaches I usually did. Finally, just because the night has handed me the opportunity on a silver platter, I clear my throat and will myself not to blow it.

"So, had a good night?"

He smiles and turns to me, and suddenly I think I'm melting. "If it was actually the last night on Earth would you break up with your girlfriend?"

I wonder if this is a trick question, but I can't help but feel girlishly giddy. "Um," I begin.

"Doesn't matter, don't answer. I know I'm a jerk."

"I wasn't going to say you were a jerk."

He shrugged and said pretty matter-of-factly, "Oh, I am."

"Well you gave a poor damsel a light, I'm sure that counts for something."

He laughs, and I decide in that moment that I want to be the source of that again. "This is true," he turns then and a loose recognition passes through his expression. "Hey, I think you're in my class."

I decided I'd be nonchalant and attempted to give my voice a vague tone, if that's possible, and answer, "Yeah, actually, with Spencer?"

He nods, "Good ol' Spencer."

I go to shake his hand to introduce myself, "Hi, I'm Kim." Too eager, I think.

He looks down and smiles all peculiar like and I realise I'm still holding the bottle of Moet. And I get embarrassed and put it down, and it tips over and it spills, and I've decided that this was not how I wanted my first meeting to go with Dream Boy. "I'm sorry, oh, god. I'm so clumsy."

He only takes my free hand and shakes it anyway, "I'm Jackson. Cody Jackson."

He smiles.

And suddenly everything is better again.

**CLINTON** I get halfway at the oval and I'm still thinking about her and worried about how she'll get back to her dorm. Even if it was only on the opposite knoll the oval was dark and who knew what would happen to her, or who would happen to her. I push that thought to the back of my head because it sickens me. I stop and I look over my shoulder towards the general vicinity of Henderson, a soft light on the horizon though indistinguishable. I should make sure she was ok, I decide, and I call out to the boys to go ahead without me, and how I'd meet them later. Then I begin to walk back. It's not a long walk but it was still a trek, especially at night, stumbling over amorous couples in the grass. I think absently about her and this developing crush. I think about her hiccupping earlier and how cute I find it. I had come to terms with it definitely, and I knew that she saw me as Mel's geeky Chem buddy, which I was, when it came down to it. And I guess we're mismatched, because she's way too hip and talks about a lot of these films I can't pronounce the titles of nor care to see, and she looks down on my love for Encino Man.

Who knows where these feelings come from, they just do. I'd like to believe that this kind of feeling emerges from a vacuum. But the science nerd in me knows that nothing emerges from a vacuum except for energy. Love is a kind of energy, isn't it? _Whoa! _This is definitely not love. I just think she's hot. This is why I'm not a poet; too much of this emotional bullshit. In science, you can rely on the absolutes. There's nothing ever absolute about attraction. As I get closer to Henderson I see her body as a black form against the light behind her. I get closer still and I realise it's not one body but two. My walk slows down so that I'm still in the safety of the shadows. She's laughing brilliantly, and her hands fall on her companion's knee. I stop walking completely. He leans in and whispers something in her ear. She laughs again. A bittersweet pang hits me somewhere in the gut. I was just making sure she was ok. I turn around and walk back the way I came.

* * *

**A/N:** I just wanted to thank you all again for the kind words and the reviews. This is a pretty long chapter, and I can't guarantee in future all chapters will be this long; perhaps, only when the story necessitates it. I'm updating quickly because I have my writing mojo and I know where this is going, and I'm procrastinating. The chapters going up are first drafts. When I finish the whole thing, I'll probably go back to edit. I hope you enjoyed this installment. Thanks again for the reviews, they're like smack to me. :)


	4. 4

**4.**

**JACKSON** It's my roommate stumbling in around eleven in the a.m. that wakes me. He falls on the bed and begins to snore, wheezy, because of all the alcohol he's probably consumed. I think he'd been smoking weed too. I grin. I stay in bed with my eyes clothes, willing my breathing to steady. But I can't get back to sleep. I throw my pillow at him and it hits his head. He groans and says something about "her awesome tits." I shake my head and get up, running a hand through my hair. I smell like smoke and beer. I stunk like rockstar. I shed my shirt and pants, grabbing a pair of jeans off my floor and underwear from my open wardrobe, and walk to the bathroom we share with the next room. I turn on the water, alternating between cold and hot until I get it just as warm as I like it. The water runs down my body, easing the tension in my muscles like hands kneading my tendons. I stretch and sigh and think about the previous night and the way Tess looked at me after I broke up with her.

"_Thanks, Cody, you've basically grabbed my heart in my chest and squeezed it. What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with you?"_

I'm not emotionally deficient, am I? It's what she called me when I said we were over. I probably am, to some extent, leading her on as long as I did. What _is_ wrong with me? I haven't had a meaningful relationship, since… forever. That's one realization to make in the shower. I scrub harder on my skin. The shampoo washes from my hair and the soap bubbles snake down my body to the drain. I hear a flush and suddenly the water is freezing cold. I yelp out and I hear laughs on the other side of the shower curtain.

"Fuckers!" I call out, which only makes them flush again. Their laughs echo on the tiles and then they leave.

My thoughts wander to the girl on the front laws of Henderson, Kim, I think her name is. She's cute in a typically film major kind of way. Her favourite film is Y Tu Mama Tambien. I teased her about self-inserting herself in the sex scenes. She laughed and told me she did sometimes. We had lots of things in common. She was a film major too. She was open and candid and I liked that. I turn off the water and step out, pulling on my pants and walk out of the bathroom rubbing my hair dry, and still thinking about Kim. I sit on my bed and wonder what I'll do for the rest of the day. I don't feel like doing work, just yet. I look towards my bedside table and my cell, and realise someone loves me. I reach over and open the message. It's Kim: _Lunch?_ I toy around with the idea of lunch with Kim the cute film major. I think why not. I respond with an affirmative and we decide to meet at her room. I throw on a miscellaneous shirt from American Apparel and grab my keys, wallet, and cell and walk out to make the trek across campus. Hamilton house is on the opposite knoll from Henderson at the oval.

Sunday, not too many people are out. Most are probably still nursing their hangovers from Last Night on Earth. It's closer to midday now and my stomach is turning in on itself. I walk across the oval at the top and look down at some students playing Frisbee or jogging on the grass. I spot one jogger trip and I grin a little amused. People hurting themselves will always be funny; the continued broadcasting of America's Funniest Home Videos is testament to my theory. She stands up, a Lego-sized figure from my vantage point, and wipes her face on her sleeve. I pull my eyes away and continue walking, closer now to my destination.

Hamilton looks much like the other residential houses on campus, holding probably close to 200 students. It's one of the smaller ones. Its layout is a U-shape that borders the front courtyard. I walk to the front desk at the entrance, there's a cafeteria to the left and a hall to the right.

"Yes, how may I help you?" The R.A. asks as she's chewing gum, and pushing her glasses up.

"I'm here to see, uh," momentary lapse of memory, "Kim, Kimberley Jones. I think she's expecting me."

"And you are?" She takes a ledger out and blows a bubble then pops it.

"Cody Jackson."

She looks up and smiles, chewing, "Yep, she's waiting for you. She called ahead."

"Room?"

"215, second level and turn right," she tells me, writing something down in the ledger, probably noting down my arrival.

"Thanks."

She looks up, "No problem," then she pops another bubble.

**MELISSA** My body clock was telling me it was close to 11:30. I had slept in. Seeing Greg the night before had jarred me. You think you're over someone and then you see the bane of your existence with Chelsea Polovski, of all people. I rubbed my eyes. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes is suspended limply in the air. I looked over to my roommate's bed. She's sleeping soundly, still in the clothes she wore the previous night. I thought I heard her in the early hours of the morning coming in; soft murmurs at our door. A male voice dictating numbers—his cell probably. I think I smiled even in my half-sleep. Mission accomplished. I sighed. I should get up. I had some things to consider and think about. I hated that Greg could still affect me the way he did, and I wasn't quite sure whether that was a good or bad thing.

_Move on_, I tell myself. I know I need to. I decided I'd go for a run to clear my head. Let the oxygen fill my lungs and brains. I get up and get ready. I wash my face and throw my hair in to a haphazard ponytail. I throw on a St Benedict's Prep sweat and shorts, slipping my cell in my pocket. I made my way out and noticed the secretive smile on Kim's face, barely visible under her blunt bangs. Probably still on a high.

It's a Sunday. Hamilton was lazy. Students were lounging, hanging out in each other's rooms with their doors open. There's a small bustle near the cafeteria as I walk down the stairs. The smell of lunch entices me to skip my jog. Maybe mediocre pasta could wait until later, when I was done. Someone throws a football and misses my head by a few inches. I glare at the offenders and they smile apologetically. I jog out. Why must some people insist on throwing balls _indoors_? The sun is warm on my face. It's an impossibly nice day. This is what I needed—some solitary activity that allowed me to deal with my thoughts. There is movement on the oval, others out for a jog, a game of Frisbee. I make my way down the dip of the knoll and the grass is soft under my feet. And I run.

My mind is like open water, placid and clear. I have two assignments due soon, I think; three, maybe, in the next two weeks. God, what did he _see_ in Chelsea, anyway? Was it the bouffant hair? The long legs? The fact it just wasn't me? Or maybe it was because she was white. That's it isn't it. Your WASP-y, redneck, parents couldn't handle the fact you had a Chinese girlfriend. It was just easier, wasn't it? Just so you still had access to your Daddy's precious Amex. It hurts, Greg, you thought 18 months meant nothing—that I meant nothing. Just not good enough. I gave myself a mind-slap. Ok, science. I can count on you not to make me a melodramatic whining ex. Molecular biology. Hit me brain. Polymerase chain reaction can be used in cases of gene analysis and diagnosing hereditary disease. In such cases, this technique is used in-vitro. PCR techniques such as overlap-extension PCR can reconstruct DNA by altering the sequence through insertion—or was it interruption? This process of replication and mutation would thus, effectively—_Frick!_

I was on my hands and knees. I slam my fist on the ground. I looked behind me and saw the lone stick that had tripped me. I looked ahead, I'm almost at Henderson. My jog wasn't going very good. I stood up and brushed the dirt off my front.

_Damn you Greg_. You know what it is? He's a reminder of all your inadequacies. You weren't good enough to hold on to. I put my hands on my hips and attempt to catch my breath. I hadn't realised I was puffing. My lungs felt like lead. I steady my breathing. I wipe my face on my shoulder. Or maybe I was wiping my eyes.

To Henderson and then back, I decided. On a good day I would have been able to do a few laps. This wasn't a good day contrary to what the weather may have me believe.

I picked up my heels and just run, letting all my thoughts fall away, as Henderson becomes less of a smudge on the horizon and more of a fully formed building.

My phone vibrates in my pocket just as I'm coming back from Henderson—out of breath. It was an ok jog, but I wasn't in the mood for another lap. I was actually quite hungry. I walk the last few paces, waiting for my lungs to catch up with my heavy breathing. I slip my hand to retrieve my cell. It's Kim: _Asked Dream Boy to lunch. Need back up. In room now. HELP!_ I grin, ever the social misfit. She reminded me of myself when I was younger, there was an endearing naïveté to her that made her so guileless and likeable. I stretched out my muscles. I try to pin point when I had lost my own naïveté and when I had become so—bitter? No, that wasn't the word, just so listless, maybe. Still not the right word. But, rather, so _jaded_. I shook my head and straightened up, making my way towards our room, curious who this Dream Boy of hers is.

I bounded up the front stairs, then up another flight, and turned right. I can hear music from our room wafting out from under the crack in the door in to the hallway. She's playing Duffy, which means she's in a good mood. I hear voices over the music; her soft laughter mingles with a deeper, decidedly masculine, timbre. It is only in that moment that I realise I need to shower and probably look like a complete mess. I duck my head under my arms. I stink of sweat. Very attractive, Mel. I snort, who cares, it's probably only one of those wanker film majors. No one to impress. He's all hers. I turn the knob and push the front door, my head down just in case they're in a compromising position on her bed. Their talking stops suddenly and I look up. My smile fades. He's watching me with wide blue eyes. My heart audibly skips a beat, I am sure they hear it. The room is still and only Duffy's soulful 'Oh Boy' fills the silence. I let go of the breath I realise I'm holding and exhale his name in a whisper:

"Jackson."

* * *

**A/N: **And so they meet. I know it's a little anti-climactic. Tell me if you hate it or love it. Thank you for the reviews so far, and please point out mistakes I may have missed so I can edit. Duffy is probably the soundtrack to this whole story. I was listening to her album, Rockferry, and the sound and vibe of the CD just reminds me of Jackson and Mel for some reason. Oh Boy isn't on the album but a b-side on her Rockferry single. Also, I know some of my spelling isn't consistent, and there may be extra vowels or a 'z' instead of an 's', that's because I'm Australian. :)


	5. 5

**5.**

**KIM **I push at the food on my plate. Something has been on my mind since Sunday afternoon. Well, someone. Actually, it's someone_s_—wait, some people? Can't even get your plurals correct Kim. I stab the broccoli more violently than I intend.

"Whoa there, Kim, are you ok?"

I know who it is without having to look up. It's one half of the someones—The Someones? That's not a word, just give it up.

"Hey, Mel," I tell her, keeping my voice cheery; the curiosity killing me.

She takes a seat opposite me with a science book of some description that doesn't really interest me, and an apple. Her dark hair is in a French braid and sits over her left shoulder, her bangs are side swept and she carelessly blows it out of her eye. She sets her text down on the table and leans over conspiratorially.

"What's up?" She asks with a quirk at her brow that parallels the one at her lips.

The cafeteria is buzzing with chatter and I look up to her, and I can't help but smile anyway. Damn her and her friendly ways. God, why was I even angry? Ok, I wasn't angry, just curious. I saw the way they looked at each other—it was just full of so much—I grapple for the word in my head. History. They had so much history, and they didn't need to say it. One didn't exactly need powerful deductive reasoning to realise it in the moment Mel had walked in the door and he had just stopped talking abruptly, looking over my head with—what was it? Bewilderment? Surprise? It was like a thousand and one emotions had flitted across his handsome face in that second, and I turned over my shoulder and she's standing there in the doorway, her hand still on the knob, with a look that mirrored his; this thousand and one emotions; this—I sigh—_history_.

Again, the curiosity is killing me.

Did it matter? Did it bother me? Is it really any of my business?

She repeats herself, even though I heard her the first time; her voice a little more concerned, she pushes gently, "Kim?"

"Nothing—just being a stress head about this paper that's due at the end of the week."

She smiles, but I know she doesn't buy it. She's super perceptive like that. She doesn't keep pushing though, because she's too polite. I kind of wish she does push and it'll give me the opening I need to prod and pry in to her business. She settles herself in the seat and opens her book, taking a bite out of the apple as she does. I watch her with my peripheral vision as I take mouthfuls from whatever it was the cafeteria was serving today for lunch, some kind of pseudo-beef. Maybe I should go vegetarian.

"I think I'm going to go vegetarian," I tell her.

She looks up with an amused grin on her face, chewing, "Oh yeah?"

I nod once, "Yeah—I mean, it's probably a healthier alternative."

"To what?"

I bring the piece of 'meat' up to her line of vision with my fork. She laughs, "I see."

"Besides, animals rock, so I might try it."

"Yeah?" She quirks a brow.

"Totally," I tell her, convincing myself, "yeah."

She laughed again, probably because she thought it was just another one of my new, fandangled, plans to inject some excitement in to my otherwise mediocre and boring existence. I pick at the food on my plate a little more. We sit in silence. She finishes her apple. Her core sits on the table and she turns a page. I've given up on eating. Perhaps, I could go to College Café and pick up a sub. The idea becomes very appealing. I have no classes for the rest of the day. I don't have film until Tomorrow, Thursday. It's the class with Cody in it. _Cody—_saying the name just gives me a little thrill. Mel calls him Jackson, for some reason I've not been able to discern yet; there was a familiarity when she called him by his surname—again, history.

Mel puts her book down and regards me with a curious gaze, "Ok, what is it? You're being so quiet and… and," she paused, looking for the right word, "pensive."

"Why is that such an anomaly in my behaviour? I can be pensive, y'know, and deep—really deep."

Mel smiled. "Yeah, I know. What's your paper for?" She asks. This is her style, she thinks if she can lull me in to a conversation that I'll eventually spill, and it gets me every time.

"Film."

"Oh," she says. I wonder what she's thinking. She finally speaks, "Which subject? Aren't you doing two this term?"

I nod, "It's for Gender and Sexuality in Film."

"Ahh, I see, interesting?"

"It's pretty interesting. Like, did you know the first pro-lesbian film was a German talkie released in the 30s?"

"Did it satisfy your Sapphic tastes?"

I laughed, "Not really, it's actually more anti-authoritarian than anything. In any case the Nazis banned and attempted to burn it, but copies escaped and it was heavily censored until the 70s."

"How about before then? Before the Nazis."

"Well, when it was released, it was kept in tact, uncensored, and it was very popular, except when it was released here where, at the time, our prudish government censored it. The sad thing is we can't get our hands on the original version. After the war and the censoring some scenes and cuts are missing, which is a shame; you can tell when you watch parts of it. But there's definitely a sexual charge to it."

She nodded, "I'd be curious to watch it. What's it called?"

"Madchen in Uniform, it's in Kent."

"Yes, I'll definitely remember that title," she said deadpanned. I grinned.

"I think Cody and the rest of the guys in this subject got a little excited at the prospect of girl on girl."

"Jackson—sorry, Cody's in this film class, not the other?" She says his first name like it is foreign on her tongue.

"Yeah," I pause. She came to lunch with us on Sunday, but left early, citing assignments that were due. It was a pleasant meal, though the awkwardness was palpable. It only eased when she made (what I thought was) her hasty departure. I didn't have enough guts to ask either of them how they knew each other, but there was some mention of high school, which was odd considering—and I was pretty sure—St. Benedict's was an all-girl Prep school. Maybe he had gone to the brother school, or maybe he was a townie. I wondered momentarily how'd I'd phrase it, _what is the nature of your relationship—past or present—to a certain Mr. Cody Jackson? _I'm a nut. I bite the bullet. "So," I start slowly, all casual-like, as if I hadn't been thinking about it _at all_ up until this point, "how do you know Cody?"

She gets that look on her face again, the one I can't read. Who am I kidding? I'm lousy when it comes to reading people. Her voice is measured when she answers, "Just someone I knew." Past tense. Interesting.

"Oh, like a friend?"

"Yes, I guess," she hesitates then continues, "Circumstantially, anyway." She should be a lawyer not a doctor, I think. She doesn't give anything away. "Why, what did he say?" She asks tentatively.

"Just that you were friends in high school," I answer her. Pause. "Did he cross dress or something? I thought St. Ben's was all-girls."

Her mouth broke out in to a smile, "I moved to St. Ben's at the end of my sophomore year. I didn't really know him for very long, in high school terms anyway, the way you might know someone since junior high or elementary. Do you know what I mean?" I nod, and she continues. "But the period I did know him in was intense. He just reminds," she stops, and takes another route, "he, and other people, used to be very important to me." She doesn't elaborate.

I try not to push, and I don't attempt to ask about these 'important people.' But I can't help myself and ask instead, "Used to be?" More because some part of me wants to know that he is a free single agent and I'm not treading on any of their _history_, which they so obviously have.

She smiles reassuringly, "If you think I have any kind of designs on him, it's ok, he's yours, seriously." I knew she was perceptive.

"I just don't want to intrude if—" I begin.

"No, _I_ don't want to intrude. I mean your date the other—" She interrupts.

"I asked you remember! I just had no idea you two—"

"There really was no 'us two.'"

"But there could be?"

She shakes her head, "I think I should be asking you that." A beat. "How _is_ that going anyway?"

I shrug, "The last I saw him was Monday at the lecture and we had coffee afterwards."

"And it was?"

"Divine." She grins at me from across the table, but it doesn't go completely to her eyes. I've descended in to my swoon-mode. Maybe I'm boring her, "Sorry, I'm boring you."

She shakes her head, "No! Not at all—what's the deal? I'm always interested in your romantic exploits."

I shrug, happy for the invitation to talk her ear off. "I don't think he's interested."

"At all?"

I shake my head, unsure, "I don't know, but I don't get any vibes from him."

"Maybe he's unsure of what vibes he wants to send out to you."

I look at her and smile, "Perhaps, I don't know. I mean, he just broke up with his girlfriend, if anything he would be on the rebound. And right now I think he enjoys my company as an acquaintance. He's hardly my friend right now."

She nods, "Jackson's a bit of a loner, from what I remember. It's difficult to crack him." I consider this but she thinks she's said something wrong and rushes as an afterthought, "I mean, Cody, sorry. I haven't seen or spoken to him in a long time and calling him anything but Jackson—"

"Is a weird taste in your mouth?" I finish for her.

She grins, "Pretty much, that's the case."

I want to ask her more, but I wonder how much she's willing to divulge on the Chinese Puzzle Box that is Cody Jackson. "He seems to be open to my company."

"That's a good sign, I guess. He will come around, and it looks like he's beginning to."

"But romantic-wise?"

She shrugs and blows her bangs out of her eyes, "I wouldn't have a clue. I haven't seen him since I was 16, and he's probably changed since then."

"Broody," I offer, for no apparent reason, but because it pops in my head as a word I automatically associate with him.

"Or he could have not," She smiled as she spoke, obviously agreeing with my one-word encapsulation of him. "I really wouldn't know."

I want to ask for more information but she's not looking at me anymore, something's caught her eye. Her smile fades. I turn towards her line of vision and it's that moron Greg, and he's looking at her from across the cafeteria. I thought he had moved residential house to the other side of the campus. He's still watching Mel, and suddenly Chelsea is next to him, pulling him towards the friends he and she are probably visiting. He smiles at Chelsea and nods, and the blonde walks towards their table of friends, he looks back to Mel, but she's already looked away. He retraces the path Chelsea has taken. I watch Mel for a moment, and she clears her throat, plastering on a smile. I empathise with my friend and that urge to punch Greg resurfaces.

"Anyway," she begins, "I'm sure that even though it's too soon and he might be on the rebound, I'm sure he wouldn't hang out with you if he didn't think you were cool."

It's her deflection tactic so that we don't speak of what just happened, and I go along with it. "Sure, I guess."

"When do you see him next?"

"Tomorrow, we'll probably go out for coffee or something, again."

"Did he initiate?" I nod. "Then I think that's a good sign," she continued.

"That he's interested in me?"

She shrugs, "One step at a time, but it's definitely not a bad thing that he wants to hang out with you, right?" This realization makes me happy for some reason. She must notice the stupid grin on my face because she adds, "Things are looking up for old Kim Jones."

I laugh recognizing the reference, "Have you been watching 30 Rock again?"

"Religiously, until the new episodes begin again."

"Hey Mel."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," she knows what for—the Cody reassurance.

"Nah," she shakes her head, getting a little serious, "Thank _you_." I smile; I know what for—the not mentioning Greg thing.

"That's how we roll, bad boys for life."

She cracks up then sobers. "Do you want to go to College Café to get some subs?"

"You read my mind."

We get up from the table and walk towards the exit. "Salad sub for you, now, I'm guessing?"

"What?" I'm confused.

"You're a newly turned vegetarian; remember, 'animals rock.'"

I crinkle my nose, "Nah, I'm so over that." She's slightly distracted and I catch her share a weak smile with Greg just before we leave. "Besides," I say, attempting to get her attention back, which I do, so she doesn't dwell on Greg, "I really feel like some baloney."

**JACKSON** She smiles at me when I walk in to class, fifteen minutes late. My tutor doesn't seem to care because he knows I'm not really taking this class for credit; it's just insanely relevant to my thesis and he's my Honors supervisor. I walk over to the seat vacant beside her. And she seems pleased. Kim is cute, yes, I have established this before, definitely, but I'm not quite sure why I've been making the effort to hang out with her. Admittedly, in the beginning, I was curious, if not at least a little bit interested (sexually at least). And, now, I'm not sure where I fall. But I enjoy her company, and that seems to be enough, for now, anyway. In all honesty I was cautious about engaging girls in to a friendship which might evolve in to a meaningless romantic relationship… like Tess. I saw her again the other day and she pretended she didn't see me, even though I saw her look over her shoulder after she thought I had already walked past. I've decided I'd get to know Kimberly Jones better, before I decide what I want to do with her—or even to decide whether I just want to _do_ her.

I won't rush headlong in to this and lead her on, or do something stupid like kiss her prematurely in to our friendship-type-thing, lest she gets the wrong idea. I know she has a crush on me and ever the narcissist I thrive on her attention. Maybe I really am emotionally deficient. I have been tempted to kiss her, though. I had wanted to kiss her when we were sitting on her bed listening to some kind of Amy Winehouse knock-off; I had wanted to do this before I even really knew her. I had only met her the night before that afternoon. I had been tempted to kiss her then, too. She was too damn cute when she was drunk; but, I didn't kiss her on Sunday (or the night of Last Night on Earth) and I'm not quite sure if it was a conscious choice or because her door suddenly opens and her roommate interrupts my smooth move. Who am I kidding? I'm not smooth. I was probably going to make a clumsy attempt at flirting. I think my heart actually stopped beating the moment I recognized who walked in. Divine inter-fucking-vention, was what it was. I wasn't a big believer in fate. It might exist. I don't know. I don't think I really care. But there she was, older than what I remembered. She had shed her baby fat and looked fit and toned; slim legs in running shorts and wearing a gray pullover advertising a school I didn't recognize. But she was the same, or at least she seemed to be. Her eyes had lost the vibrance they once had. Her shoulders no longer slumped in an effort to appease everyone. Her smile wasn't as warm as it used to be. She was harder to read; no longer displaying her emotions like a fragile shell, but, rather, her body had become the armour that concealed and protected what she was feeling and thinking. It was at lunch that I observed how different she had become. She wasn't sixteen anymore. And I'm not quite sure whether I'm intrigued or disappointed that the happy Melissa, the one in my memory who was eager to please and easy to like, was just that—a memory.

I am lost in my musings that I don't realise the class is looking at me. "Well," Kirk, our tutor, prods.

I think I heard something vaguely about censorship and the line between accepted expressions of sexuality and pornography. "I guess," I begin—come one brain don't fail me now, "when we're considering sexuality in film we refer to whether or not it is exploitive and if it is gratuitous and, uh, relevant to the plot."

Kirk squints at me then, after a moment, smiles. "I hate it when you do that." There is a twitter of amusement from the other students in the room. I'm a smug bastard, I know this. Kim nudges me and gives me two thumbs up. Discussion continued, someone mentions aesthetics, and she leans over and whispers in a Borat-like accent, "Very nice, high five!" And I can't help but be amused, so I slap her outstretched palm. The class continues. I'm slightly bored as someone brings up snuff films and whether or not they really exist. The digressions and conversational tangents in the class was one of the best parts of the hour we were required to sit there and learn for. Afterwards I'm walking to College Café to get some coffee and baloney subs with Kim. Well, she's getting a baloney sub. I'm just going to get some coffee. We make small talk as we walk and as we order and settle at a table.

"Is it an effort being a quick thinker when you're put on the spot like that?"

I grin, "No it comes pretty naturally." She's pouring a sugar sachet in to her latte as I say this and flicks some towards my arrogant self. Her playful gesture endears her to me just a little.

"So, how's your thesis going?"

I place my double black on the table and shrug. "It's ok I guess, I'm still researching and planning. I have a big feeling I'll be writing it all during the break at the end of this term."

She nods and teases, "I know some other students doing Honours are already in their first draft."

"I'm not like other Honours students. I'm a rebel like that."

She laughs, "An intellectual rebel?"

"The James Dean of Honours, I'm bad to the bone baby," I can't say it with a straight face and my mouth slips in to a smile. I take another drink from my coffee.

"I always see you with one in your hand," she says suddenly. I'm confused, and she explains, "A coffee. If it's not a coffee it's one of your Camels."

I shrugged, "I don't know, I'm try to quit smoking so I guess I'm keeping something else in my hand."

"Yes, another highly addictive substance."

I laugh, "Hey, you know they ease heroin addicts off the drug by giving them weed, or a less harder drug."

"Really?" I nod. "Bullshit."

"I'm serious, it's not my problem you're a sheltered little girl."

She mocks offence. "I'm not sheltered!"

I quirk my brow, "And you try to hide it by using ghetto-slang like, 'frontin' with my homies.'"

"Why must you be so up in my grill just because I have no street cred? I know I'm not the coolest person in the world, but damn it I'm trying." I give her a look that tells her, 'see,' even though I know she uses the term 'up in my grill' on purpose. "Besides," she continues, "you went to high school with Mel, and I know enough about Mel to know that before St. Ben's she probably went to some other cushy school. So, I doubt you have much street cred."

I hide a smile behind my coffee cup as I bring it up to my lips, "You'd be surprised."

She gets curious now. "Oh really? What is it then? Mel used to be your dealer, or are you equating 'street cred' with pill popping in your pool house and underage drinking and debauchery?"

I shake my head, "Not quite."

"Because that's just lame," she continues. "And that's not real street cred, that's just typical bored suburban teenager stuff."

There's a lull in the conversation. I wonder how much Mel has told her, or whether she's spoken about me at all. It was obvious Kim was told nothing of Hartwell or the island. I wonder why that is. "Do you think I'm a bored suburban teenager?" I ask her, and she studies me a little.

"To be honest, I don't really know." She pauses, and I know she wants to ask me a question but is too polite to ask or isn't sure if she knew me enough to ask otherwise it would have been too intrusive. "How do you—" she stops and shakes her head, "Actually, it doesn't matter."

"What? How do I what?"

"No, it's rude; and, besides, I think it's _way_ too intrusive considering I don't know you all that well." I can't help but laugh a little inside my head, considering my earlier assessment on her hesitation. She was like an open book. Completely guileless. I guess that's what I liked about her. No drama. "Anyway, I know you're not taking credit for Kirk's class, so I guess you're not doing that critique he wants next Wednesday."

"Doesn't matter, I have notes on Baudrillard I'm sure I can give you."

Her face brightens, "Yeah? That would make my life." A beat. "Ok, I lie, it would just make this paper a whole lot easier."

"You can have them only if—"

"Wait," she interrupts me, "I don't do sexual favours."

I laugh, "No, but I do." I wink animatedly and waggle my brows.

She grins and drums her fingers on the table. "I'll keep that in mind for future reference, dollface." She picks up her cup and takes a drink, keeping eye contact.

I can't tell whether she's playing around or being serious or both. I find her sudden boldness attractive. I add it to the 'Why I would sleep with Kimberly Jones' list I keep in my head. "Anyway, as I was saying, I'll give you the notes if you just ask me what you wanted to ask before."

She swallows her coffee and settles her cup on the table, her chin on her hand—elbow casually on the table. "Well, I was just wondering how you knew Mel."

So, Melissa had turned in to a secretive type. I'm beginning to really wonder what happened to her since she left Hartwell. "What has she told you?" I venture cautiously.

"Nothing much, just that you went to school together; she just seems hesitant to talk about the time before I knew her and your whole association seems to be shrouded in mystery."

I nod, "We knew each other in school, Hartwell High, actually. That was the school she went to before she moved."

"She moved?"

"Yep, one day she's in my class and the next day she's not."

"How did you two—_oh_," she says. I'm confused. She explains, "You two dated?"

I smile and shake my head, "No." I wonder whether Mel wants me to open up about something she obviously wanted to keep to herself. "I mean for a time there I think we liked each other, but we ended up in romantic purgatory, you know what I mean? For me, anyway, I couldn't really decide whether I liked her or whether I thought of her as a sister."

She's listening to me interested, her coffee now finished. "I'm not usually that complicated," I laugh, "but I think a lot of it had to do with the circumstances."

Her eyes seem to perk up, "She said something about you two being friends circumstantially."

"Yeah?"

She nods. "But she didn't tell me what the circumstances were, and I have a feeling you're not going to, either."

I grin but I continue to tread carefully. "I was new, I moved to Hartwell my sophomore year. She was one of the first people to befriend me, actually. I used to have serious trust issues. I'm a lot more open as a person because of her." Not quite a lie about the 'circumstantial' relationship I had with Melissa.

She crinkles her nose, "Really?"

I nod, "You look surprised."

"I don't know," she shrugs, "She's just so not social. Like she is to an extent and she has friends she hangs out with, but she's so closed and doesn't open up much."

Interesting. "Back when I knew her, she was a bit of a geek," I say this fondly. Kim doesn't respond and I offer a little more insight in to the former Ms. Wu. "She was in all these clubs, a class president type, everyone's friend. She was very friendly and outgoing, if a little naïve, but she was a very nice girl. She's probably the sweetest person I know—well, knew."

My companion looks a little taken aback. "Whoa, this spins me out, she's just so different."

"See, this new Mel--your Mel--spins _me_ out."

"I mean, she's worse now than when I first met her," she tells me, "but I think that had a lot to do with Greg as well."

Now I'm curious. "Greg?"

She nods, "Her ex. She was never quite the same after the stuff that happened with him. But it sounds like she hasn't been 'the same' for quite a while."

I want to ask her what this 'stuff' was, but I say instead, "People grow up and change, I guess. And things happen."

"I guess," She agrees, though not thoroughly convinced. We lapse in to a thoughtful silence. "Why did she leave your school?"

I had a feeling I knew why she had left, but nothing was ever confirmed, so I didn't want to give Kim any misinformation. It was hard when we got back from the island, especially since we had missed so much school. They had put us in accelerated classes and given us 'special consideration.' We were all sent to a shrink. We were minor celebrities for a little while. Then we attempted to get back in to the motions of everyday life, of being a teenager, of school, of family things… of my parole. The last thought makes me smile a little, just 'cause I'm not that kid anymore. On the surface we appeared to have been, ok, but none of us were really quite the same. It was only later that cracks began to show. How are you supposed to get back to the sameness of it all after being stuck on an island for almost thirty days? We missed a whole month out of our lives. We were expected to deal with it like adults, about the whole situation and the whole ordeal, when in reality we were just kids. Then there was Abby. And not long after there was Lex.

"Why'd Mel leave," I repeat to myself a little redundantly—I had heard and understood the question fine.

She nods, watching me curiously. "If you don't want to an—"

I smile reassuringly, "It's fine." Melissa Wu. Melissa. Mel. Mel, who believed in me. Mel, my security. Mel, I realise, the stranger. She was never one of those people who I thought would ever become a stranger to me. She seemed to live in my head the way I knew her. Even though I knew she'd grow up she was always Mel to me, bright like the sun. I sigh and finally answer, "To tell you the truth, Kim, no one really knows."

* * *

**A/N:** So here's one mammoth chapter. Just over five thousand words my word count tells me. It is unlikely future chapters will be quite this long. There was a lot of dialogue, I know. Some of it was insight in to some of the characters; the nature of their relationships with each other; why Mel is the way that she is. All will be revealed eventually. The story's just beginning to unfold and I hope you continue to follow it. Reviews, as always, are very nice to have and I appreciate the ones I've gotten so far. Mistakes all mine, just point them out and they'll be fixed. Stay tuned for more.


	6. 6

**6.**

**MELISSA** Don't think. Just drop it. I hesitate, holding on to the pieces of stapled paper. I took one non-science class this semester, just for the heck of it, and I've come to the realization that I'm not as good at writing essays as I was in high school. I can't seem to articulate my thoughts as well as I balance chemical equations, anymore. My essay, I knew, was woeful—even after Kim had proofread it. I drop my paper in the assignment box, and let out a breath. I turned around and decided I'd take a nap. I wasn't much of a napping person, but a wave of sudden tiredness came over me. I knew I had a lot of work to do, but I was going to avoid it in the mean time. There were too many things on my mind, and it all stemmed from a certain someone whose name started with a big, fat, 'J' and ended in an 'N,'—or 'Cody,' as he was being called now. I slipped through the halls, with Jackson in my head.

After I left Hartwell I forced myself to pack all my issues neatly in to a mental box and store it away. I willed myself not to think about it much—if at all—and I attempted to move on. There were so many things left unresolved and when I saw him there, on the bed, a time I thought I had forgotten was resurrected, and suddenly I'm 16 again; awkward; a little shy; trying to befriend everyone and yet in many ways completely alone. Then there was Jackson, and he was a loner too. I try to bury these thoughts as I walk across the Quad. I'm not that person anymore, am I? But I don't know if that's a good or bad thing. _But you're still completely alone_, an evil part of brain interjects. I don't realise I haven't been paying attention to where I'm walking until I crash in to a hard body. I look up. Familiar brown eyes consider me warmly.

"Mel," he says. And I don't want to be affected, but I am—just a little.

"Hi, Greg." Does he notice in my voice how shaken he's made me with just my name?

"How are you?"

"Fine," I tell him, avoiding his eyes, eager to leave. But my legs stay. I hate my legs, I decide. It's taken you almost a month to ask how I am, and only because you bumped in to me. I know that he knows I'm still upset.

His eyes soften and he touches me on my shoulder. "Mel," he tries again. I flinch. He takes his hand back and sighs.

Pause.

"How's Chelsea?" I ask more bitterly than I intend. This time he flinches. Secret victory.

"She's fine, we're just friends. She just broke up with her boyfriend, and she needed a shoulder to cry on."

"You don't need to explain."

"Then why did you ask?" He's wary now. Good… I think. Why _did_ I ask?

I look up to him and squint, the sun in my eyes. "I should go. I have things to do, and naps to take."

I turn to walk away but he grabs my arm. "So I take it that you're free now?" He says this with a little smile. My lips betray me and they twitch slightly upwards.

"What are you doing Greg?"

He's still holding my arm. He seems to realise this too and his hand drops. He doesn't know the answer and he runs his hand from the back of his neck through his hair. "Coffee?"

I hesitate and I know I'll hate myself later, but I say, "Ok." Damn you Melissa Wu. "But only 5 minutes."

"I was actually thinking of a place off-campus. It only opened a few months ago, and I hear it's good," he says, rushed.

"I don't know, I have all this—"

"They have churros," he tells me with an impish grin.

I hate he knows me too well. "Fine," I don't want to smile but I do. I'm meant to hate him. Clinton says I'm too nice, and maybe I am.

We don't talk in his car. It is a comfortable silence and we're listening to an old mix he made me, though I don't think he's playing it on purpose. It's a quick drive, no more than ten minutes. The café he takes me to is quiet and cozy. Soft jazz plays in the background and the walls are covered in posters of blues bands, folk singers, and jazz legends. We take a seat in a corner next to the front window. He orders for us. We don't speak as we wait for our coffee and churros (with sweet dulce de leche dip).

"So, how are your classes?" He asks me when we receive our coffee and churros.

I nod a 'thank you' to the waitress and answer him, "Fine. And you?"

"They're good."

He looks like he's about to say something but then he chickens out and cracks off a piece of the churro and dips it in the sauce. He slips it in to his mouth.

"Good?" I ask him.

He nods, "Yeah, try some."

I do, repeating his actions and allowing the sweetness to infect my tongue. He must see the satisfied expression on my face because he says, "I told you." I smile.

The silence stretches between us like an invisible wall, filled with things we didn't say, and all the hurtful things that we did. I'm halfway through my latte when I'm the first to crack, "Why?"

He looks up at me over the cup. He's taking a drink of his espresso. He swallows and settles the cup down on the saucer. "Why, what?"

"Why did you bring me here?"

He's about to answer and I know what he's going to say, so I interrupt before he does, "And I know it wasn't for the churros," I smile despite myself.

"Damn it," he grins, "I think she's on to me." I shake my head and there's a pregnant pause as I look at him expectantly. He knows he has to deliver the goods. Finally, he says, "I missed you."

"Greg," I begin, "don't," but I don't know how to finish what I want to say.

"Mel, I have."

I snort, "Just a reminder that you broke up with me—"

"I know."

"—so don't give me this, 'I miss you' bullshit." I wish I wasn't this upset and I start tapping my foot nervously.

"I know, but it's true."

A beat.

"So that's it then? You tell me that you miss me, and everything's meant to be ok?" He wants to answer, but I cut him off before he does. "It just doesn't work like that."

"No, I don't expect that." He sighs, and then adds, "I know it doesn't work like that."

"Then, why?" The 'why' holds so much meaning and he knows this. Why did he leave me during what was possibly the loneliest time of my life. Why were we here. Why does he miss me. And why do I miss him too.

"It's a lot of things, I was scared," he leans over the table slightly, shifting in his seat.

I roll my eyes, unconvinced. "Don't take the easy way out. I'm not giving you an escape hatch."

"I was a coward," I turn away to the window. "Am," he amends. "I _am_ a coward."

I turn back to him, "So what?" He has nothing to respond to me with. No words. "Your parents—it was your parents; scared of getting cut-off; a coward to confront them about me."

"Partly," he admits.

"Partly? You're the biggest trust-fund baby I know. Don't tell me that was only part of it."

"It was us Mel. It was me and it was us."

I laugh sardonically. "Clap, clap, clap, Greg, that's officially the weakest thing I've ever heard. You should have stuck with your 'rents as an excuse."

"Mel," he begins frustrated, "I was only 21—god, 20, even. I… I didn't know," he's flustered, "I couldn't handle us being so… so real."

I shake my head, "Us? Being real? So real that you left me," my voice weakens. I stop talking so that I don't cry.

"Mel, it wasn't like that. I was a coward, I was scared." He tries to inch his hand over to take mine—comfortingly, probably, though his presence is far from it—and I snap my hand back before he makes contact.

"Stop using that excuse, because you don't think that I was scared?" I lashed out in a fierce whisper. He looks at me helplessly as I continue my assault. "The first thing you said to me, when… when we thought—" I can't say it, and so I stop and start again, "The first thing you said to me was 'I'll pay for it.' How do you think that made me feel? I was scared too, you know. And then the next thing I know, you're so withdrawn and you're not taking any of my calls or wanting to see me. I was so alone thinking about what could be in me, growing. I needed you, Greg."

"I went through depression, Mel. I didn't know what was happening to me. I had a breakdown." This shocks me, I had no idea, but I didn't react. I kept my poker face as he continued. "I wasn't ready to be a parent. I couldn't even take care of myself—I still can't."

"Do you think _I_ wanted to be a parent? And you leave me. All that time I thought I was pregnant, you leave."

"I tried to call."

I laugh humourlessly and leant back in my chair, "Yes, after you found out it was a false alarm. I needed you," my voice cracks. "You made me feel like I wasn't good enough to stay with; that I wasn't worth it. Do you know what that feels like? I felt worthless. Even worse, I thought about what I would do if I actually was pregnant and you weren't there. I'd have to go through the decision of whether or not I'd keep it. Didn't it occur to you that it was hard for me too?" He stays still and he didn't answer, I continue, as evenly as I could keep my voice, "I understood it was difficult for you as well, but I was ready to be there for you because I expected for you to be there for me too. We were meant to be in it together and then you leave." I pause to gather my strength. "I had never been so lonely," I admitted to him, murmuring. "You give Chelsea a shoulder to cry on, but where was my shoulder, Greg?" A lone, petulant tear, the one I was holding back, falls down my cheek and I wipe it away. He sees it and I can't take it. "I'll make my own way back to campus."

I throw a few bills down on the table as I get up and hurry out of the café. I'm sniffing, I know, and I try to stop the tears from falling, but I can't; and my stomach hurts because I'm forcing myself not to cry. Not to give in. I hear him calling my name after me, but I don't listen and keep walking—I wasn't quite sure where but I just needed to go to a place that was just away. He's calling me, still, and I know he's jogging after me. _Mel_, he's calling out. I pretend I don't hear him.

"Mel," he's closer now, and he grabs my hand to stop me, and uses it to turn me to face him. And I hate that he sees me crying. He looks like he wants to cry too.

"Mel," he says again, putting his hands on my jaw; rubbing his thumbs across my cheeks, wiping away my tears. "Mel, I'm sorry." This only makes me cry some more. Damn him. "Mel, I'm sorry," he says it like he means it. He puts his forehead against mine. I start to believe he means it too. We're making a scene—I know. "I'm sorry baby, I'm sorry," he says like a chant. Like a reassurance. Like it's the only thing keeping me afloat or else I'd just sink in my own sadness. And he wraps his arms around my body to pull it against his. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm sorry," he soothes. He gives me his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispers in my ear. "I'm sorry," he tells me as he kisses my hair and strokes it. And somewhere from the pit of my gut, I find a tiny voice to say, "I'm sorry too."

**KIM **Melissa's not in our room when I get there. I drop my bag on the bed and connect my iPod to the dock hooked up to the stereo. I'm in a Kate Nash kind of mood, I think. I shuffle her album. 'Pumpkin Soup' comes on and I decide that my iPod is in complete sync with my headspace. I love it when it does that. I'm still on a high from my coffee with Cody the previous afternoon. Mel called it a 'pseudo-date.' He was totally flirting too. My tummy flips at that thought. I walk over to my desk. My laptop is never turned off, like ever. Technology was like my lifeline. If there ever came a time in human history where I could be an android, I think I would totally try to be one. I take out some books and the notes Cody gave me for my critique. I have the urge to smell the typed up pieces of paper. I mentally slap myself. You're such a nut, Kim, seriously. I open a new Word document and I stare at the blank page. I grin to no one in particular when I remember our banter, particularly on 'street cred.' But it was our topic of conversation afterwards that really piqued my interest. Mel, the class president type? Heck no. Sure, she was definitely a quiet achiever. I knew she didn't graduate from St. Benedict's with the greatest distinctions, and it was only at Worland that she really picked up her game, wanting to go on to do Medicine at Penn State and all that jazz. My hand settles on my mouse, my finger restless. I was curious to know what it was like to know Cody's version of Mel. He was quite evasive when he spoke about the nature of their 'history.' I grin at the term 'romantic purgatory.' But it fades when I realise I might be stuck there too.

My thoughts settle back on Mel, my roommate, who wasn't what she seemed to be. I finally take a hold of the mouse properly and move it around my desktop, minimizing my still blank Word document. I settle on Modzilla and hesitate. I tap the mouse lightly, unsure. I double click. If neither of them were going to indulge my curiosity I would have to indulge myself. Google is my friend. I rationalized to myself that there was nothing immoral about finding information on the Internet. After all—whatever's on the Internet was open to anyone who found it. Right. Just fricking do it Kim. I click the search box and type in her name. No help. There were too many results, and none of which looked vaguely like what I was looking for. I bite my lip. I decide to try: _Melissa+Wu+Cody+Jackson_. I'm about to hit 'Search' when a wave of inspiration hits me. I add: _+Hartwell_. A page of what I assume to be relevant results automatically appear. Just as I click the first link there's a knock at the door. I change the window back to my Word document and go to answer it. I know it's not Mel. She would have used her key. It's Clinton. I smile, "Hi."

He's standing there awkwardly, as if he didn't expect me to answer. Hair disheveled, wearing a New Kids on the Block shirt, and jeans with a hole on the right knee. "Oh, hey," he tells me, "is Mel around?" He tries to look over my shoulder.

I shake my head, "No."

"Ah, ok, that's cool. I'll just come back later."

"Don't be stupid and come in and wait for her. She should be home soon." I tell him, leaning on the doorjamb.

"I just need to get some notes off of her. I don't want to disturb whatever it is you're probably busy with." He sticks his hands in to his pockets and sort of shuffles on the spot.

"Don't be silly, I'm just stalking."

He's curious now, "Oh really?"

I nod, walking away and leaving the door open as an invitation for him to come in to the room, "What do you know about our good friend Melissa Wu?" He follows me and shuts the door with his foot.

"I don't know, why?"

I sit back down on my swivel chair and face him. He's standing in the middle of the room, unsure of where to sit—actually, just generally unsure. "Could you ever imagine her as the class president type?"

"Nope," his brows raise to his hairline, "since when?"

"A guy in my class who used to go to school with her said she was different back then." I swivel around back to my desk and maximize the browser I was looking at before he came. The page had loaded. He walks over to where I'm sitting and leans over my shoulder to read whatever it was I had found, unconvinced. "Bullshit." I nod, still reading. I think both of our eyes simultaneously widened with what I had found. When we finished reading we looked to each other in disbelief. "No way," he says under his breath.

"Mel was stuck on an island for a month?" I say, stating the obvious.

"That's… that's insane," Clinton manages to say. "No one _really_ ever gets stuck on an island." He stands back up, and continues talking, more to himself than to anyone in particular, "I mean, that's some TV series bullshit right there. I can't believe she's never told us. That's crazy. It's totally one of those things you'd be trying to enter in to conversation whenever you could, 'oh, by the way I was stuck on an island, how was your summer?' Do you get what I mean?" I nod and laugh; he's got both his hands grabbing his hair and he's still grinning. "That's insane," he repeats. He comes back to my side and leans over my shoulder again, "What else have you found?"

I go back to the results page and click on the next article. We continue reading the links for the next five minutes or so. I couldn't fathom what it would have been like. I don't think I would have survived. The more information we read the more it became apparent that Mel and Cody were on some sort of school group on an ill-fated flight to Palau. I vaguely remember hearing something about that on the news in high school but the details were hazy, so it didn't quite click at first. We continue to read and there's one particular article that catches my eye. There's a picture that accompanies it. It's of Mel and a group of kids hugging who I assume to be their parents—except for one. In the background Cody is standing with a woman in a suit talking to police officers. I take note of it and stick it in the Dream Boy folder I keep in my mental filing cabinet. I think of ways I can ask him about it without letting him know I've been stalking him. We browse in silence, except for a few breaths being let out and silent exclamations of surprise. The room is still, save for Kate Nash playing in the background. I turn to Clinton whose head is close to mine. I forget what I want to say because he's looking at me, the words caught up in my throat. He smiles weakly and turns away. He mutters something about it being 'insane' again, but I'm still looking at him. "Insane, about this whole thing with Mel," he tries to explain. But that's not the explanation I'm looking for. I turn back to the screen slowly, a little confused. I nod anyway.

"Do you think we could mention it?" He asks me as I click the next link absently. "Like, it's weird she's never ever said anything about it."

"There's probably a reason she hasn't told us." I say, looking over to him. "We're being such super sleuths right now, so we have to be subtle about…" But my voice fades when I turn back to the screen and my eyes come across the title of the article. I don't think Clinton is paying attention to me either as we're both distracted by what we're reading. "Shit," he exhales quietly. It was no longer about the crash but one of the kids. We don't speak. Something in my gut twists and my partner in crime's expression seems to mirror my own as our eyes fall on to the same line:

"… _It was fellow student and castaway, Melissa, who found the girl hanging in the girl's locker room. Police believe it is suicide._

_ Last names have been omitted to protect minors."_

Clinton swallowed and we both looked at each other. "I—" Clinton begins but is interrupted by a key rattling at the door.

I close the browser quickly and we turn around just in time to see Mel watching us with a small smile on her face. "Uh, what are you two doing?"

She walks in and the door swings shut behind her as Clinton stands up, clearing his throat, "We were just watching porn." Mel laughs and Clinton walks over to greet her. He gives her a kiss on the cheek. "I just came to grab those Chem notes and the lovely Kimberly Jones was just entertaining me until you arrived. And look at that, now you're here."

She looks at me peculiarly over Clinton's shoulder. I still can't find my voice as she replies, "Really, now?"

I nod. Her brow quirks, "Anyway, I'll just get those notes for you." She walks over to her desk. Her back is turned to us when she speaks again. "I know I said I would be here but I got caught up in some stuff."

"That's ok," he tells her and we share a look behind her back that agrees, 'we never speak of this.'

Mel turns around to face us again whilst Clinton and I have our silent conversation with our eyes. She looks first at me then at Clinton, she doesn't know where her eyes should rest, "Ok, guys, what's up?" Her brows furrow.

I smile genuinely, "Nothing."

She hands the notes to Clinton unconvinced as he makes a hasty departure. "I'll see you in class."

He leaves. As soon as the door closes, she pounces, "So, you and Clinton, huh. You just have boys flying at you; every time I come in here I have to be careful not to disturb any of the loving."

"The notes were so obviously an elaborate ruse to see you," I tell her matter-of-factly. I mean, she just doesn't see it. He kisses her when he sees her. Clinton _never_ kisses me. Like ever. She gets that damned secretive smile on her face and I ask her, "What?"

She only shrugs a little and collapses on her bed. "Oh, nothing."

I roll my eyes. I swivel back to my laptop pretending to do work, but still absolutely horrified over what I had read before she came in. "Where were you anyway?" I hear her settling in to a more comfortable position on her bed.

"With Greg" she answers.

I swivel around again, not expecting the answer. "What?!"

"It was just coffee."

"Why do you even give that cock the time of the day? You're too nice Mel."

She's on her side and she looks at me, as she seems to search for an answer herself. "I don't know. We bumped in to each other and he asked me to coffee and we talked about all that stuff that happened between us."

"Yeah? I had no idea he had gotten over his inability to talk to you. And now he wants to talk, why does it have to be on his terms? Where was he when _you_ needed to talk? Like I said, you're too nice Mel. Did you resolve anything or did you pretty much come back to the conclusion that he was a cock, because I could have told you that."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that. The word cock seems to be a synonym for Greg in your vocabulary." She smiles. "But thanks. Thanks for being supportive, but it wasn't that bad. I think we needed it. I think that _I _needed it, like closure."

I'm biting the inside of my mouth and think that she better not get back together with him. "You're not going to get back together are you?"

"What? God, of course not; we just worked some things out. I'm not that much of an emotional masochist."

"Good," I swivel back around to my desk, then I think of something and swivel back to face her and add, "Or else I'd have to punch you."

She laughs and I turn back to my empty Word document. I think it was getting annoyed with me for being open so long and yet I hadn't typed a thing. I want to ask her about the island but I'm no longer sure how she'll react. Before reading the last article I thought I could have mentioned it jokingly, but now with the knowledge of what actually happened afterwards it may actually be quite tactless. That was it—god, it must have been the first time _ever_ for me to be perceptive. That had to be why she left, or at least part of it.

"Seriously, though, what were you and Clinton doing when I walked in? It looked like I had interrupted a private moment," she teases behind me. A get a brief flash of Clinton looking at me—for real, now, what was _that _all about?

"Nothing of any importance to you," I lie, still feeling guilty about uncovering something about her past that so obviously affected her negatively. Something she didn't want me to know. In this case, things dead and buried should have been kept dead and buried, unless she wanted to resurrect them. But her adolescence was beginning to seem to me like a painfully real Degrassi episode. "I was showing him this video on Youtube of a breakdancing baby."

"You two have so much in common, it's ridiculous sometimes."

I'm about to retort when my cell next to my laptop alerts me that I am loved. When I see who the text is from, I look down at the phone like it's gold in my hands, and I can feel my mouth grinning stupidly. "Hey, Mel," I say after I read the message.

"Yeah?" I swivel around to face her. She's browsing through one of my magazines, still on her side, but I know she's not really paying attention to what she's reading. Something is so obviously still in her head—probably Greg, that cock.

"Are you busy tomorrow night?" I ask her.

She looks up, "Not that I know of, why?"

"Cody wants to know if we want to watch him play."

She seems interested but, as usual, doesn't give anything away. I try to gauge what's going on in her head but I can never read her. "Play, as in a gig?"

I nod, "Yeah."

She thinks for a moment, then says a little more convincingly, "Uh, yeah, sure." Though what she was convincing me of I was yet to figure out.

"Sweet," I say as I text him an affirmative back and swivel to my still blank Word document. I place my cell on my desk and settle my hands over my keyboard, poised to type should the unlikely event of inspiration hit me.

"What are you working on?" She asks. She's in a good mood considering she's just had coffee with her demon ex.

"Baudrillard and Adorno," I answer, my back still to her.

"Is that the class you're in with Jackson?" I've gotten used to her calling him that.

Now, he obviously has some secrets of his own. I wonder if they're like Mel's secrets, part of which I knew of now due to my intense curiosity. "Yeah, Jackson," I echo, just as an image of a young Cody with police officers pops in to my head.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to all my loyal reviewers! I know this one was kind of heavy and deals with some 'mature themes,' so, tell me if you think I should make the rating higher. As always, point out any mistakes I may have made and leave me some love in the review box.


	7. 7

**7.**

**MELISSA** So, Jackson has a gig. I can't help but smile at the thought. But of course he has a gig. Doesn't this only add to his appeal? The brooding loner; wearing a military-inspired pea coat with the collar up; a curled paperback copy of Nietzsche in his back pocket; smoking; playing and writing songs on his guitar. It was pretty damn understandable why Kim was so smitten. He's exactly her type. But was he mine? I shake my head clearing those thoughts from my head. Sure, ok, it _was _a surprise to see him again. And sure, ok, he did look really ridiculously good even in just jeans and plain gray t-shirt. He was just so unaffected. But I hardly knew him anymore. And he hardly knew me. It was like we were starting again because a gulf had grown between us over the years we hadn't seen each other. Then again, it wasn't as if our acquaintance was characterised by anything more than circumstance and teenage hormones… was it? Thoughts like that are dangerous.

In hindsight I had been a little girl, dealing with a very big situation. Naively I thought that after we had been rescued we'd be able to resume life like the island had never happened… or that it did, only it wasn't as significant as we previously thought it would be. We thought—or, at least, I did—that being rescued answered everything when in reality it only added to the questions and the insecurity and the doubt. We thought we were okay when clearly we weren't. And—Jackson—he was a reminder of that time. I laugh to myself—did I really think that we'd just start dating after that? The gravity of the situation hadn't hit us yet. All we knew was that we were going home. And then the school, and the doctors, and parents forced us to go to counselling at least once a week. We didn't want to. And we were stubborn in the beginning. But as the time wore on we started going even though we weren't required to. And one visit a week turned in to two, then to three, until I was going every second day. Sometimes just to talk about what happened on the island. Sometimes because the night before I couldn't sleep. Sometimes just… because. Except for Abby—she never went. She kept saying that she was fine. That she was ok. That she was over it. But each smile and word of reassurance about her emotional and psychological stability was all a façade. And we accepted it on face value like the fools that we were. Maybe we were too young and self-involved. I mean, we had our own shit to go through. Maybe we were just too immature to understand anything beyond us, what was outside of us. Hell, we didn't even understand what was happening inside of us. But we let her loneliness consume her. We thought she was ok mainly because she said that she was. But maybe we just didn't try hard enough to reach out. Maybe I didn't try hard enough. The thought makes me shiver. 'Maybe' is such a sad word, I decide. Maybe she'd still be here.

"Hey, Mel, are you ok?"

I turn to Kim and nod, plastering on a smile, "Yeah, I am. Why?"

She shrugs, "I don't know you're just a little quiet, that's all."

We're in town. It's probably close to 8. We're walking, on our way to Jackson's gig. My thoughts come full circle: Jackson. Kim is excited. Even _if_ old feelings resurface there was Kim to think about. Besides, we were kids. What we were feeling, then, wasn't 'real.' Being on the island was like being stuck in a vortex of hyperreality. It was a magnifying experience, it heightened emotions and tensions. It was a bad dream, that's all. No—Jackson was hers, it's not like I even really knew him now. Besides, what kind of friend would I be if I tried to steal him away from her? I had been in Kim's position before. And I was sure that Jackson reciprocated her feelings to an extent; though how small or big was a mystery. Kinda like him, actually. That was one thing that hadn't changed—his broodiness.

"I'm fine," I tell her.

She nods, still unconvinced, but we've reached a hole in the wall and I realise this is where Jackson's gig is. We walk through the door and we're standing at some kind of landing. The Avalanche's 'Since I Met You' wafts up the narrow staircase and we begin to descend down to something akin to a bomb shelter. The walls have posters upon posters, some ripped and fraying, others are shiny and new. The only source of light comes from an orange glow from a bulb hanging on the roof. We continue walking down the stairs and the music gets louder mingling with the chatter and laughter of patrons. When we reach the bottom of the stairs we turn left and there is an open space with a makeshift stage in one corner, a small area for standing and dancing in front, and tables and chairs, and booths, all occupied. We scan over the heads of the people in attendance. At one wall is the bar. The lights are dim, the ceiling is low and I recognise some people from college.

"Can you find a seat?" I ask my companion.

She leans over, "Huh?" She can't hear me.

"I said: can you find a seat?"

She's about to answer when she begins to pull me towards a corner. I'm about to say something when I realise where we're heading. I recognise shadows and the smiling face of Clint greets us.

"Hey!" He says. "Since when did you guys come to The Swallow?"

I shrug and Kim excitedly answers, "We're going to watch Cody play."

"A 'gig,' kids call it." I say next to her and Clint smiles my way before his soft gaze settles on Kim again.

"Come on, have a seat guys."

We take a seat, two of his friends are there who I recognise as David, a pure mathematics student, and Paul, a very pretty English major who was also very gay.

"Have you guys met?"

I nod, "Yeah, David and Paul, a couple of times?"

The two nod in acknowledgment.

"And have you guys met Kim?" Clint asks.

They shake their heads and offer out their hands, as they make their round of introductions.

"Do you want a drink, Mel?" Paul asks, smiling like he's just walked out of a Disney cartoon as Prince Charming. He is a big loss for hetero women everywhere, I decide.

"Yeah, sure, Heineken if they have it."

Paul nods, "Sure." He gets up from his seat and I get up too. "No, stay," he tells me. I offer some cash but he waves it away. "I'm not a neglected rich kid for nothing." He laughs. "And you, Kim?"

She shakes her head and takes out Tic Tacs, "No thanks."

Paul stands up and throws a look towards David and he follows suit. The two boys walk away and we look after them until they are lost in the throng of the crowd.

"Are they—" Kim begins.

Clint grins and nods, "Yes, they are, but they're being too stubborn to actually start dating."

"Since when was David gay?" I ask, surprised.

"Uh, since forever," Clint takes a swig of his beer.

"But he so hit on me this one time."

Kim snorted, "Well obviously not."

"No, he did!"

"Was it that time at Lola McKinnon's? That time?"

"Yeah and we did about 4 tequila shots one after the other—"

Clint laughed, "—and you ended up on the roof of Pryor?"

I nodded, "Yeah, yeah that time."

"Don't you remember?"

"Well I remember him hitting on me."

Kim shook her head, "No, I think I remember too. That was during the Greg thing."

"Yeah," Clint said, "and you got so drunk David had to carry you home and you kept trying to kiss his neck and telling him you knew how to satisfy his needs."

"Well, obviously not, because you have a va-jay-jay," Kim sniggered.

I must have looked horrified. That was so not how I remembered that night. I blame Greg. The terrible twosome began laughing. "Oh just make out already," I tell them.

That shut them up. I sneaked a look towards Kim, but she seemed to be oblivious. Clint was about to say something when the two boys came back with our drinks.

"So, Cody, have you watched him play before? He's pretty good. He plays every now and then."

I take a sip of my beer and place it down before I answer, "Just moral support. I used to go to school with him."

"Oh…" Clinton looks towards Kim who nods. I wonder what that's about. "So you two are reminiscing about old times?" He asks slowly.

I shake my head and point the bottleneck towards Kim. "It's all her, she has a crush on him."

"Really?"

Kim nods, "Remember at Last Night on Earth? He's the guy I was looking for."

"Right."

"Yeah, I ended up meeting him not too long after you left me, actually."

"It all falls in to place," Clint mutters, and my brow quirks ever so slightly upwards—curiouser and curiouser.

Before anyone can reply the lights completely dim in to darkness, and instinctively we turn towards the stage. And Jackson's there, the lone light in the room drops on him, sitting on a stool, a Gibson acoustic resting on his lap. I can hear Kim's heart fluttering from where I'm sitting. Dark eyes regard the crowd, and his lips thin in to a secretive smile. People are still chattering.

"I wish these people would all shut up," Kim says. I smile.

He clears his throat. "I hope everyone is doing well. Thanks for coming out, I'm Cody Jackson and I'll be your entertaining monkey for tonight." There is a twitter of amusement.

"Like, seriously, shut up," Kim mumbles, still watching him. My smile grows wider. Lovelorn? Lovesick? Completely and utterly in Lust? Oh yeah, she totally was. I turn towards David and Paul sitting behind me. They're deep in conversation. Paul has his arm draped on the back of David's chair and their heads are close to each other, oblivious to everyone around them. I turn to Clinton who is watching Kim, who is watching the stage with her undivided attention. Love drama sucks, I decide.

"So, um, I want to start off with a song that," he pauses and takes a drink from the water on the stool next to his, before he continues, "a song that's about a girl I once knew." I roll my eyes, such a typical way to introduce a song. I think every musician I've gone to see play has used this line at least once before a song; usually a love song or a song of woe.

He tunes a little and plays a few quick chords and brings his head to the microphone. "This is called, She Says."

He settles back on the stool and begins strumming the opening bars; the sound is rich and crisp as his pick hits the strings, and the chatter of the crowd begins to die down. He has his audience captive, but he seemed to be in a world of his own. The opening builds and he brings his mouth to the mic, licking his lips before the words come out. His voice is like honey. It is when he hits the crescendo of the verse, and is about to swing in to the chorus that he looks up, blue eyes like a bullet through the dark room hitting me in the gut, because he seems to be looking straight at me, or through me, even though I know he doesn't really see me or know that I'm here. And I'm biting the inside of my mouth, and my heart begins to beat rapidly, and my hands begin to shake. I don't think anyone realises how thrilled and terrified I am at the same time. I grip my beer bottle so tight I think my palm is about to bleed, and he draws me in, a soft bittersweet smile graces his handsome face as he continues to sing, because in that moment I realise: this song is about me.

**CLINTON** What does Kim see in him? Sure, he's good-looking, talented, has a nice ass. Ok, yeah, so _maybe_ he really is swoon-worthy. I should just give it up. Still, that wasn't the interesting part – it was watching the dynamics of Mel, Kim and Cody (or Jackson, as Mel had slipped a couple of times). It was after his set and we were socializing. I couldn't decide whether Cody was interested in Kim. He and Mel seemed to have a different energy, one of familiarity; though they hardly spoke it was evident in their furtive glances towards each other. Small world. The guy Kim's in to just happens to be the guy Mel was stuck on an island with. I want to ask them both about it. My curiosity far exceeds any jealousy I may harbour. Actually, it was pretty irrational to be jealous. Crushes suck like gravity. That was a _lame_ analogy Clinton—and, yet, strangely apt. Gravity—the name of the force—could be applied to many scientific and abstract examples. Universal gravitation—when two bodies meet—couldn't that be used in terms of defining the law of attraction, both the pull and the meeting? I take a drink from my Sol. Paul and Cody are arguing, in only the way liberal arts students can, over the merits of the film and book version of A Clockwork Orange. Cody thinks Kubrick is genius. Paul thinks Burgess is the original and the best. David looks like he'd rather be analyzing the mathematical metalogic in Astral Physics. Kim contributes to the argument and sides with Paul, surprisingly. I think I like her more now, for some reason. I study Mel who is listening thoughtfully, and offers her own insights, but she's a closed book. Cody brings up Vinyl, the loose Andy Warhol adaptation of the story. Paul says that he's never seen it. They make a date to check it out in the Kent multimedia section. Kim wants to go too. David says suddenly that Warhol used mathematical principles in his Pop Art, especially in the Soup and Brillo works. Paul mentions something about gay twins Warhol wanted to film and they're off on another tangent. Mel looks up and she catches me watching her. She smiles, but it doesn't extend beyond her mouth to her cheeks or to her eyes. And for the first time since I've known her I've come to notice that it hardly ever does.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to those who have reviewed! I hope you enjoy this installment. As always, don't hesitate to point out mistakes.


	8. The Girl Under the White Blanket

**The Girl Under the White Blanket**

_I can't remember how it happened, or who told me, or what I was doing at the time. Wait… maybe—no, all I remember was that the moment I found out I was catatonic, in a zombie-fied state, if that's even a word. I was just too shit scared that everything was beginning to fade like watercolours that hadn't quite dried yet, and they were running in to each other until it all turned that weird-brown-grey colour. I don't know, I'm thinking… I'm thinking that maybe it was too late? We were too late. We couldn't save her. But how many of us actually really tried? How many of us cared to look deeper? And I could say… I could say that there was shit we had to figure out as well. But we needed each other; maybe, some more than others. It's not something I admit, this whole needing people business. I tended to hide it behind a façade of idiocy and just being a general douche. I just remember trying to get to the scene as quick as I could when I heard. I think I slid on the linoleum when I reached the hallway where students had gathered behind police as they began taping it off: the girl's bathrooms. I pushed through the crowd, not giving a shit, as they threw me looks, as if I had been tainted because I knew her and we had experienced the same thing. And maybe I _was_ tainted. Maybe I was poisoned by that month on the island. It sure as hell didn't make me any stronger. But god I had never felt as alone as I did than when I got back to this place called 'home,' which had just become so unfamiliar. It was a police man's arm that held me back, "not today, son, can't go through."_

"_I knew her," I tell him._

_His eyes soften slightly, he's seen this before. "Then maybe it's best you don't—"_

"_You don't understand," I interrupt him, "she was one of _us_."_

_His face furrows in confusion as I stress the word 'us.' "I know you're upset, but you can't go through."_

"_That's bullshit," I spit at him in frustration. It's then that I look up, and it's Mel standing next to the lockers looking through the open door of the girl's bathroom, ashen faced. She doesn't move and her face is passive. A woman is talking to her asking her questions. A sudden gut instinct of protectiveness comes over me. Can't they see she's not in the right state of mind to be asked stupid questions? She doesn't need this right now. None of us need this right now. I don't think Mel's breathing, the only indication she was alive was when she blinked. My stomach painfully twists and I realise—she's the one who discovered the body. There are more students now, on either side of the hallway, crowding where the police have taped it off. I want to tell them to piss off, to shut up. This wasn't any of their god damn business. There are whispers and mutters and then it turns silent when the foot of an emergency bed peeks through the open door, followed by a body with a white linen blanket pulled over its unmoving, supine form. My heart plummets and my eyes fall shut, and a silent 'no' seems to echo inside me. It comes towards me, the gurney, being pushed by people in uniform, to take her back to the labs and cut her up to make sure there was no other party involved. The thought of them dicing through her skin like tenderized meat makes me dry retch. _

_The police officers push us back, as the students step aside to create a narrow corridor for their fellow classmate. It's in front of me and I want her to suddenly sit up and say 'Gotcha!' but it passes and it doesn't move. It is still__—__the only way death can be. My ears are fuzzy. People are talking now, behind their hands, a wave of whispers and voices rumble in the hallway, as the emergency bed rolls out the front doors of the school. I swallow and I look back to the 'scene'. My eyes connect with Daley on the other side. Her eyes are unbearably sad and she bites her lips. I know she wants to cry. I want to do something terribly uncharacteristic of me and leap over the small patch of hallway in front of the bathroom and hug her. But I don't. I look at Mel— she's still standing there, the woman still with her. She nods absently when they ask a question. I look around to see whether I recognize anyone else. Ian? Jory? Nathan? I turn around and push myself through the crowd and away, and I'm not sure where I'm going but I know I need to get out, suddenly feeling so claustrophobic. I feel a hand try to pull me, and I'm about to swear at them blue in the face, but it's Taylor. She mouths my name unable to find her voice; she has been crying—eyes are fresh with the glisten of tears. I open my mouth and close it but nothing comes out, so I pull her in to a hug fiercely instead. She grips on to me, her hands taking fistfuls of my shirt. I want to comfort her as her body shatters in to sobs but I find that I don't have the words. I was never good with words. When we part she wipes her nose and eyes with the back of her hand._

"_I'm going to go to Mel," she tells me._

"_Yeah" I hear my own voice reply, but I'm not sure whether I'm really speaking. _

_I watch after her as she ducks away from the looks. And I think… I think that maybe I should follow her to protect her from the rumours. But I don't and instead I walk towards the back of the school. And that's the instant I make the choice to break away from them, because this is just too much. Too many tangles, too much dependence on the knowledge that they were like me. But they weren't. They had their demons, and I had my own. I pass an empty hallway except for a lone figure leaning against the lockers with his face in his arms. He looks up, hearing my feet shuffling. He looks at me, voice low and deceptively even, "Is it really… is it really her?" I swallow and nod slowly. No other words need to be passed between us. Something seems to break inside him and in one swift motion Jackson punches the lockers violently. I walk away and don't look back. _

_Never look back._

* * *

**A/N:** I know it's been a while between updates, but my uni semester is winding down, I have finals coming up and major essays and a thesis, and I'm organising my trip for June and July to Europe, so it's all quite hectic right now! I know this is a slight deviation from the story at hand. I was tossing up between taking this story to certain places, and I have decided on this. There will be more M/J interaction in the next chapter, but I thought that this was important in beginning to establish what happened to each of the castaways and how they ended up the way they did. Thoughts? Disappointed? Mistakes? Criticism? Loved it? Hated it? Hit that review button and tell me what you think. Next chapter is business as usual ;).


	9. 8

**8.**

**JACKSON** I see her before she sees me. I'm sitting—hiding—under the shade of a tree, reading Jameson and post-modern theory because it's supposed to help me with my thesis; _supposed to_ being the operative words. I don't know whether to call out or not. We haven't spoken much beyond superficial niceties; no one-on-one. There was always someone else there—Kim, usually—so it wasn't like we could ever really talk about… _stuff_. About why she left. About what happened to us… or what didn't. I wonder how long before 'we were just kids' isn't an excuse anymore. I see her smile, even in the distance, when she notices me. She walks over, nose scrunched as she squints in the sun. Her dark hair falls over her shoulder, knotted in to a braid which has a special name I can't remember the name of.

I look up and grin as she approaches, "Hey Mel."

"De ja vu," she's standing in front of me now, looking down. "I seem to remember our first meeting went something like this."

I laugh, "Only I was more misunderstood."

She grinned, "And this time you're less annoyed."

"How are you anyway?" I ask as I begin to stand.

"I'm good."

"And for the record," I tell her when I've pulled myself to full height, "I was never annoyed." She laughs as I go to kiss her on the cheek and she leans in for a hug. We stop awkwardly mid-air, and I adjust to give her a hug but then she goes in to kiss me on the cheek. We stop mid-way again and she laughs, sticking out her hand. I take it in to mine to shake.

"Much better," she says, lips curved upwards, amused.

Our hand drops and I stick both of mine in my pockets. "So," I begin slowly, "Where are you off to?"

She shrugs, "Probably get something to eat. I'm done for today, how about you?"

"I was actually going to go in to town to get some Thai." A beat before I continue, wondering if she'll hesitate with her answer, "Did you want to come with?"

She looks like she's going to decline and opens her mouth to say something, pauses, then says, "Uh, sure." I think she surprises herself with her response. "But, I'm just going to drop my bag off in my room and grab some extra change."

I nod, "Sure. I can just meet you at the Hamilton carpark to pick you up."

She smiles and nods, one that goes to her eyes, "That would be good, thanks."

"So… good."

"Yeah… good." Pause. Her mouth is still smiling then she shakes her head a little. "I'll see you later Jackson." She nods her head good-bye and walks towards Hamilton.

I can't help but smile too, for no reason in particular as she walks away. This is good, right? Ten minutes later I'm at the Hamilton carpark leaning on my bonnet and smoking one of my Camels. She's walking towards me in a navy shirt and black skinny leg jeans. Her hair is out this time, bangs swept to the side. Gosh she's prettier than I remember; effortlessly pretty. I laugh inside my head, since when did I say, _gosh_?

"Hey," I tell her, throwing the filter on the ground and stepping on it.

"Hi," she replies, as I walk to the passenger side and open the door for her. "Thanks."

"No problem." I shut the door after her and she settles in to her seat. I jog to the otherside and swing myself in to the driver's seat. I start the engine and slip a CD in to the radio—it's Bloc Party. I pull out of the parking space and head for the college gates.

"So, thanks for coming the other night."

"That's ok. I was curious."

I turn my head a little to face her, but she's looking straight ahead. "Did you like it?"

She turns to me, "Of course."

"No, seriously," I turn back to the front briefly and look at her again, "don't just say it to be polite."

"No, I really did."

I nod and turn back to the front, smiling, proud. "Good," I say more to myself than a response, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick.

"I really liked that first song," she adds. I think my hand tightens on the steering wheel a little. I don't think she notices. I wonder if she knows that song is about her.

I slip a look towards her, "Yeah?"

She nods, "It's touching."

I swallow. I decide that I won't tell her it's about her—it'd probably be too creepy. "Thanks."

She looks over to me, "You're really talented." I don't think she expects a response and so I just nod.

We settle in to a silence and listen to the music until we arrive at Thai-riffic. I park and we get out of the car. Thai-riffic is my favourite Thai place in Worland—which seemed to be a town obsessed with Thai food—and it was much better than Thai-tanic and a host of other restaurants named with vaguely humorous bad puns. We walk to the take-away restaurant not far from where I've parked, still quiet, sinking in to our own thoughts. I wonder what she's thinking. Is she even thinking anything? We take a seat at my favourite corner table and browse through the lunch menu.

"I think I feel like something kind of sweet," she says across from me. "Pad See Eiw, probably."

I nodded, "Yeah that sounds good." I was damn hungry, I could already taste curry in my mouth. "I think I'll go for the green curry."

She put her menu down, "Good choice."

I was about to say something when we were interrupted by the waiter who brought us a jug of water and glasses, and took our orders. She poured me a glass of water and then herself.

"Thanks."

She nodded, "You're welcome."

The silence stretched as we each drank water. It wasn't awkward—just empty.

"So, how's your thesis going?" She asks.

"It's ok, I think I've hit a roadblock though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What were you focusing your thesis on again? Like, I know it's on B-grade grindhouse-type flicks."

I poured us both more water before I answered. "Well, yeah, exploitation cinema."

"So what are you stuck on?"

"Snuff."

She quirked her brow, "Really?"

I nod, "Yeah. One of my main problems is that it's pretty much an urban myth and it's very difficult to get your hands on a copy of actual 'snuff.'" I said with finger quotation marks.

"So you don't think it exists?" She's curious now. I'm just glad we're talking. I know it won't lead to anything _heavy_, and it was too early in to our re-acquaintance to start digging through all that shit. And I didn't know where she actually stood on the issue or if she even thought about everything—or anything, at all—anymore.

"Well, the thing is, if actual snuff existed it wouldn't be floating around, do you know what I mean, because that would basically be hard evidence for murder."

"Yeah, but if you can get kidneys on the black market, I'm sure there's a sicko out there—"

"Well, exactly, so long as there is demand you can bet there will be supply, we just probably don't hear about or see any copies."

A beat.

"There are people who would film a murder for money," she says out loud.

"People kill for a lot less."

"This is true," she conceded. "I just can't fathom it, especially because, for one thing, the person getting filmed who's being killed probably isn't there voluntarily; you know, if actual snuff existed"

I nodded. It was a sobering thought. "Kinda scary, huh. It's even harder to think that people get off on that sort of stuff."

"Tell me again why you're doing this for your thesis," she laughed.

"Hey! I just wanted a reason to watch Attack of the 50 Foot woman and Barbarella."

She grinned and looked up at me under her lids, and said suddenly, so achingly simply, "It's really good to see you again Jackson."

I wasn't sure how to reply, though I think a simple 'likewise' would have sufficed. But I'm saved by the waiter with our orders. We didn't speak much as we ate, only to say how good the food was and to try each other's orders. The closer I came to finishing my rice and curry the more I attempted to come up with an excuse to hang out with her some more. Even though what was sitting in front of me was essentially a stranger, deep down I knew it was still Mel—my Mel—and I wanted to look for her, or at least _look out _for her. Maybe it was some yearning to connect with something—or someone—familiar after so long just being alone. And I had a feeling she felt the same. I had turned out ok, I eventually came out the other end, but I knew Mel was still stuck; still lost. It was karma, I guess, at another time, what seemed like another lifetime ago, she had tried so hard to pull me out of my lonely shell, and this time I think it was my turn to offer her the same favour.

When we had both finished and paid we stood outside the restaurant full and satisfied, and I took out my post-meal cigarette. "Do you need to get back?" I asked.

She looks down at her watch and shakes her head, "Not really. Why?"

"Do you wanna get gelato?"

"I guess," she answers slowly.

"You guess?" I mock offence. "Look, I'm not _forcing_ you to get some gelato, though why anyone should be _forced_ to get gelato I just don't know—"

"Ok, ok—" she was grinning.

"—I mean, what's the world coming to when one needs to be _forced_ to get gelato?"

"_Ok_, I'm aware my decision is irrevocable and I'm not being coerced…"

"And that decision is?" I ask tentatively, still doubting the appeal of gelato, which seemed to have become a metaphor—at least in my mind—for hanging out with me some more.

"Yes, I want to get gelato."

"That's better," I said, but added through squinted eyes suspiciously, "As long as you're not being _forced_ to go." She hit my arm and I rubbed it, teasing her, "Like, hello, ouch!"

"Let's just go get that damn gelato," she's still grinning despite herself. "And I know that didn't hurt."

**MELISSA** We walk to the local gelato place, The G-Spot, up the street, not too far from the Thai place we ate at. He's smoking beside me, his lanky legs mirroring mine stride by stride. Well this is interesting. I think about our small talk over lunch. Who used made-for-DVD murders as a viable topic of conversation, seriously? No wonder Kim was so in love with him. I think absently how different he is; no longer angry with the world? I grin, that was such a cliché way of describing him as a teenager. I think I like the change. He used to be so serious, and now he's just so, well, chilled. I like this Jackson. Not that the old Jackson wasn't someone a young bright-eyed ingénue wouldn't be attracted to. But this Jackson—here, joking about gelatos—is, as Kim would say, _superfine_.

"How are you preparations for the MCAT going?"

I shrug, "It's ok."

"When do you do the tests, exactly?"

"I plan to do it some time in my final year. Right now I'm just going through everything I need to know, keeping my grades up, and by the end of the year I'll probably start actual test prep."

He whistled low and shook his head, "That's a helluva lot of work right there."

"And like a major thesis isn't?"

He grins, "Hey, I'm not trying to save the world here, and I thought we already went through this, I just wanted to watch Barbarella."

We get to the G-Spot and order. He pays for me when I'm not looking and trying to retrieve my wallet. He says it's because it's the only way to repay me for going _so_ out of my way to get gelato with him. We're sitting at a bench outside the G-Spot looking out to a park, eating our respective gelatos just sinking in to our own thoughts. This silence is more comfortable than our last one.

"So how long have you known Kim for?" Jackson asks, long legs stretched and crossed in front of him.

I turn to him beside me and squint in the sun. I wonder momentarily why he asks before I answer, "For about two years."

"Close?"

"Yeah, I would say so." I don't know how to continue and so decide to say something purposely provocative, to see what his reaction will be. "I think she has a crush on you." 'Think' was a gross understatement. I know that she's certifiably, insanely, head over heels in complete puppy dog love with him. But I don't want to give too much away.

He chuckles and shrugs, "I know."

"That confident?"

"I'm not stupid."

"Who says you have to be stupid to be unaware?"

He pops the bottom of the cone in his mouth and wipes his hand on his jeans, "Ok, what I meant to say was that I'm not clueless." He turns to me with a grin, "Better?"

"Much," I tease.

"Semantics, semantics…" he trails off. "Why do you mention it?" He asks with an arch of his brow.

I'm not quite sure, actually, and so rather than giving him that answer I lie, "Just wanted to know if you were interested." Maybe that's only a half-lie. What I'm not quite sure is for whose benefit it is that I am asking: mine or Kim's? This is stupid, and I reject this probability and decide I'm asking for Kim's. Actually, I know I'm asking for Kim's.

He looks in front of him and starts drumming his fingers on his thigh, "Ah, I don't know, she's a great chick. She makes me laugh and I can have all good types of fun with her." He pauses. "I don't know." We sit in silence a moment before he continues. "I just finished a relationship with someone that I was sort of screwing around. I don't want to screw Kim, around, you know? If I'm in to her, and I think I am, I want to be sure that I'm as much in to it as I think she is. Does that make sense?"

Sort of. "Sure."

"You think I should ask her out, don't you," he says with a cock of his head towards me, still looking in front of him.

"It might make a girl's day. I don't know. I was just wondering. But I know what you mean. It's difficult when you've just come out of a relationship, you either rebound or close up."

"Is that what happened to you?" He says evenly. He catches me off guard. He's trying to reach out. And he's stopped drumming his fingers now. "Sorry, that was –"

"No it happened before that. Let's just say it was the final nail in my emotional coffin."

He's apologetic, I know, I can see it in his face. "I'm sorry."

I shrug, "No harm done. You're just calling what you see." We sit in silence and I finish my gelato. After a moment, I tell him, "People change, Jackson." I want to say something else, but I don't know what that 'something' is, so I just smile instead.

He nods. He understands. There's a pause. I know he wants to keep talking about all this change business, but I don't think it's the time yet. And as if he's listening to my thoughts he says, "Kim's really in to me, is she?"

"I thought you were already aware."

He grins, "Sort of. But you pretty much confirmed it for me."

"So what's the verdict then?"

He shrugs, resuming the drum of his fingers on his thigh. "I'll see how it pans out. But at the moment it's a bit of a possibility, I'm just not sure yet."

"Why do you have to be sure?"

"I hate being the jackass all the time, and Kim doesn't deserve that."

I wonder why he's really hesitating, "So for now you'll just keep pseudo-dating?"

He nods, "Sure, why not. I like her company. And I think, for now, that's enough for me."

A few seconds pass before I reply, "But do you think that's enough for her?"

He looks to me and his smile flattens in to a line. He knows the answer and so do I: _probably not_.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for all your nice reviews. I know it's been a while since my last update, but I've been in Europe the last couple of months and I just started grad school, so it's all been a little hectic for me. But I hope you enjoyed this instalment. I know not much 'action' happened, but I'm just building the foundation for their re-acquaintance and the process of Jackson and Mel finding each other again, but to what capacity, I won't reveal yet. Drop me some love if you loved it. Drop me a criticism if you didn't. :)


	10. 9

**9.**

**KIM** "I'm not making it in to a thing, it was already a thing." I look beside me to Cody, who is smoking. We are walking from our class towards his room, where he invited me to watch some grindhouse flicks with him for his thesis. Needless to say, I'm more than just a little bit chuffed.

His mouth cracks in to a grin as he takes a slow drag from his Camel. "You're making it in to a thing."

We've just passed Kent, narrowly missing being casualties in the line of fire of student club fundraisers. "Look, all I'm saying is that the Queer Collective and the Socialist Collective are wasting their time. No one wants to go to a... a..." I've lost my train of thought because he's looking at me with that face that I can't place and I get all weird and my insides go all gooey.

"Trivia night?" He offers.

"Yes," my thoughts are back on track, "a trivia night. What kinds of questions are they meant to be asking exactly? It is every citizen's right to a) take to the streets en masse with hammer and sickle; b) have sex with people of the same sex; c) --"

"All of the above."

I grin, "Yes, c) all of the above. It's such a waste of money." I pause, and to reiterate how bad of an idea I think trivia nights are I repeat, "For a _trivia night_!"

He laughs, "They have to make money somehow. Student advocacy groups get rarely any funding from the powers-that-be, here. Besides, I thought you were a bleeding heart leftie. Shouldn't you be supporting them?"

"I _am_ a bleeding heart leftie but they could have been fundraising for, I don't know, a roller disco night or something instead."

We're at the front of his building now and he stands in front of me. "You are too cute." Then he taps my nose and begins to walk up the front stairs. I am frozen; immobilised by his simple, innocent touch. I try to stay calm. He thinks I'm cute! I resist the urge to do my celebratory maraca dance and steady my breathing instead. Keep it together Kimbo.

"Are you coming?" He asks from the top of the stairs.

I shake myself out of my stupor, realising that I've been standing there idiotically as students walked around me. "Uh yeah, sure." Then I nod and follow him inside. We chat as we walk through his building, up the stairs, and to his room. The interior of his building is just like every other redbrick residential building on campus.

"Just warning you now, my roommate may or may not be sleeping naked. So I hold no responsibility for anything that may have the potential to scar you for life." I laugh as he pushes his door open. His room is similar to mine and Mel's; his walls are painted a navy blue and posters are randomly pinned to them. There's also a bathroom that connected to the next room. It's a very "boy" room. It smelt of boy too. Not in the damp, B.O. kind of way, but it had a very masculine scent, and I'm not quite sure whether that turns me on or not. I had to admit, it was a lot cleaner than some of the other boy's rooms I've had the good fortune (or not) to view.

"Just make yourself comfortable on either one of the beds whilst I fix this," he tells me as he begins busying himself in front of a TV. I sit at the foot of one of the bed wondering if it's his. I take a quick look to the side and see the guitar he played at his gig and decide that I've made a good choice. He walks backwards from the TV with the remote in hand and sits next to me. My heart begins to race. "So, anyway, this is a blaxploitation film called Count Blackula." He speaks and is so unaware of the effect he has on me. He turns to me and grins, "I think you'll like it. It's such a B movie and it's so camp." He turns and bends over the side of the bed and emerges with a packet of Doritos. He opens them and tilts the mouth of the packet in my direction. "You want some?"

I shake my head. "No thanks," I tell him meekly, unable to find my voice to speak properly. Oh gosh, I think I'm going to lose it.

He grins and shrugs, "Your loss." Then he crawls over to the head of the bed and leans on the wall with his legs crossed in front of him just as the opening credits begin. Like an idiot, I continue to sit at the foot of the bed rigid like a corpse. Calm yourself Kim-girl. Come on, you can do this, be totally cool and calm and collected and a total vixen.

"Are you ok there?"

I turn over my shoulder to face him. His lips are cocked into a smile, but I can't tell what he's thinking. "Yeah, I'm fine, totally." Pause. "Actually, I want some Doritos now."

"Oh this?" He holds up the packet of chips in front of him and shakes it teasingly. I nod. His mouth melts in to a sly grin. "Then come and get them."

I think my heart folds in on itself like origami and I swallow. Carefully, I mimic his crawling on the bed and settle next to him, trying to play it cool but failing miserably. "Here," he tells me, holding the Doritos towards me. I can feel his breath on my neck and I inwardly shiver. There is something quite intimate about this whole situation but I can't figure out whether he realises this too, or whether this was all intentional.

"Thanks," I squeak. I'm acutely aware of how close he is, our arm hairs are close enough to touch. He watches the film and absently eats Doritos as he does, completely oblivious to the internal monologue I'm having with myself just trying to keep it together. I just sit there, staring vacantly at the screen. Physically I''m watching, but I'm not really digesting anything of what my eyes are taking in. I'm so nervous that I think I may actually get a nosebleed. Sexy Kim -- that's _real _sexy.

**JACKSON** I don't quite know why I decided to ask her to my room to watch Count Blackula. Truth be told, I had already watched the film more than enough times I cared to count. I guess it's just an excuse to get her in my room. And then what, exactly? I'm not sure myself. She's cute, definitely, and I'm observing her peripherally. She's not very relaxed. I guess I get off on that. It appeals to my vanity to know that I have this effect on her. But am I just playing around with her? I'm not sure. _You know you are -- you jerk_. I sigh, what was I doing? Was I really that starved of attention that I had to lead this poor girl on? But I wasn't exactly leading her on. She interested me, no doubt. And I've had more than a few, well, _fantasies_ involving her that weren't exactly PG-13.

She's playing with my blanket, now, under her fingers, and I'm not sure she's noticed she's doing it. It's nervous energy. She seems to be entranced by the film, but she was sitting so tensely. She grins at something on screen. She reminds me of a kid sometimes. There's a wide-eyed innocence about her that I find particularly endearing. Maybe that's it, she reminds me of how I could have been like; what Mel would still be like if all that shit didn't happen.

God, now I'm thinking about Mel.

I try to push her out of my thoughts. That can't be healthy. I still can't figure out what all this Mel-business is about. I doubt it's attraction. It's probably familiarity. She was safe. Like home. I shake my head, that's stupid. Someone can't be home, but she could feel like it, I guess. I know Kim's picked up on it. She's not very good at hiding things. I know she's silently assessing me whenever I mention the former castaway. She's never come out and asked, but I can see it, she wants to know more about my history with Mel. I don't blame her. If she's interested in me she probably doesn't want to step on her best friend's toes. It was murky waters.

It's not like anything romantic happened between Mel and I, and, sure, something could have happened. But it was more than that, Mel and I shared a history, a past, an experience that went beyond merely a high school fling. Our experience together shaped our maturity, and who we would become as people. That's something that no one will ever be able to recreate with me. No experience -- no one -- will ever have the same impact on me again. But did it mean I was destined to be with her? Perhaps. But in the romantic sense? Maybe not.

People come in and out of your life and not all of them will be because you're destined to _fuck_ them. Though, I don't deny that there's something eerily fate-like about meeting her again, under these circumstances, 5 years later, when I've come to a point in my life where I'm so lost again. Sure, I had changed, and I was no longer the delinquent I used to be. The island, Mel, and everything that happened were like my compass, and I found my way. And here I was, just a semester and a half shy of graduating, and I was lost again. Not as a young adult trying to find my way but, rather, emotionally; which would explain my behaviour when it came to relationships like Tess, like every girl who came before her. Like Kim.

"So black people back then actually allowed themselves to be in these films?"

I turned to my companion who was still watching and answered, "Some form of representation is better than no representation."

"So that's it, then? Being exploited is better than not being on anyone's radar?"

I grin, "It's a bit more nuanced than that."

"No, really, I get it," she tells me, and she's shifted her body so she's half-facing me, "but it's like porn."

I shake my head, "The term 'exploitation' is just a word that's used because they capitalise on it. When they say 'blaxploitation' it's not a real reflection of the sentiment or content of the film. They're just low-budget B grade films with cult followings, and a lot of the time, also, they were directly taking from what was happening in the news. It's better to term them as grindhouse films. So, really, it was a way for black people to enter film consciousness because they had been largely ignored by the mainstream media. A lot of the themes in blaxploitation films involve fighting against 'The Man', or being the dominant masculine ideal."

She nods, "Ah, ok, so I imagine it was kind of liberating for them."

"Sure, in a sense. On the other end of the spectrum, though, because it attempted to sort of recreate the black experience. A lot of the characters were pimps and drug dealers, which would later inform how white people stereotyped them."

"You know what?"

"What?"

"That is just pretty gosh darn interesting."

I laugh and maneuver myself so that I'm half-facing her as well. "Yeah, well, there are lots of sub-genres in exploitation cinema and blaxploitation is just part of it."

She bites her lips and I get a little distracted but don't allow her to see this. "So," she begins, "why don't they teach this as one of the subjects?"

"They touch upon it in that class we're taking with Spencer, but that's really only geared towards gender and sexuality, it's only a part of my thesis, but that's why I attend his classes but I'm not taking credit for it."

"Ah, that would explain why you miss a lot of classes."

I nod, "Actually Spencer was thinking of introducing a course on the discourses present in exploitaton films some time next year, but the Dean's a little iffy on it. The administration is a little skeptical when it comes to introducing new courses that students might not take up."

She scrunches her face, "I'd do it, it's pretty damn interesting, more so than some of the core subjects we have to do for our major."

"Yeah, I'm keen on it as well, because Spencer wants me to be one of the T.A.'s if it goes ahead. He's read part of my thesis and he thinks it's promising."

"That's great!" Her eyes light up and she brings her whole face with it. It's very pretty. "So what? You'd teach the rest of your life?"

I laugh, "Hell no, but if my thesis gets a good mark I may be invited to do my MA or fast track to my PhD, it all depends. I wouldn't mind. I like all this bullshit. L.A. and the industry would just have to wait."

"That's pretty exciting though, at least you have an idea of what you want to do with yourself."

The DVD has been long forgotten now as we converse, playing in the background like a soundtrack. It was nice. We're very close to each other on my single bed and I realise it would be the most perfect time to kiss her. "How about you, what are your plans for this thing we call the future?" I've crossed my arms and leant the side of my head on the wall, facing her.

She positions herself in kind and answers, "I don't know. Sometimes I don't know what I want." I think she notices how close we are and she bites her lip and flicks her eyes away self consciously, but she takes no action to move.

This girl was definitely making it easy for me to hit on her. "Who knows what people want; sometimes what's important is what we want right now." I don't think my double entendre is lost on her. I'm not talking about the direction of our lives anymore but, rather, the direction this conversation is going. "So, what is it you want right now?" I bend down towards her a little and she's still biting her bottom lip. Her eyes move from my lips to my eyes betraying exactly what she wants. I grin, she knows that I know exactly what she wants, and she grins too, looking up at me under her dark lashes. I move my head closer and her lips part in anticipation. She swallows and I swallow too. My head descends closer, contact but a whisper away. She licks her lips. I lick mine too. And then --

"Far out, dude, that film's loud. I could hear it from out--whoa! Sorry kids. I didn't know you--"

I let out a breath, disappointed we've been disturbed, but I can't help but grin, "You douche, it's ok we were just--" But I don't finish my sentence when I look up because I realise that Kieran isn't alone. Mel is standing next to him with an unreadable expression on her face, looking between Kim and I before settling on me. I pin her with my eyes as she begins to talk, unsure as to what this feeling bubbling in my gut is.

"Uh, sorry, I was just about to knock when your roommate came and he opened the door for me, and I was just coming around to," she stops midway and offers us a small smile. She's good at hiding what's going on inside. "You know what," her smile has now consolidated and any awkwardness I sensed when she first came in has all but disappeared, "doesn't matter. I didn't know I was interrupting--"

Kim and I began to protest, but Mel spoke over the top of us, "No, really, I should have known." She grins.

"You weren't interrupting anything," I say.

"Yeah, nothing," Kim reiterates beside me, but with a little less conviction.

Kieran continued to stand there observing the weird dynamics in the room, careful not disturb what was happening. He throws me his patented universal look for "what the fuck?" but I ignore him.

"No, um, I guess I won't wait up for you," she addresses Kim and winks at her, then she turns to me, her smile never faltering, "and I'll just talk to you later." She nods then walks out.

"I just had to get a book," Kieran says to no one in particular, and he walks to his desk, grabs what looks to be the first book on the table and makes a hasty retreat. Before he leaves, he directs a thumbs up to me when Kim isn't facing him, then he pulls the door behind him. Then there was silence; the only people speaking were the characters in the movie still running.

"Um, I've got a class to go to." Kim informs me after a few seconds. Then she stood up, hastily fixing her clothes.

I look up at her, "You don't have to leave."

"The moment's broken," her mouth settles in to a pleasant smile, "but it doesn't mean we can't have any more of them in future." I can't help but grin. She picks up her bag and makes a move to walk away, but before she does I grab her hand impulsively -- I'm not sure, exactly, why. She looks down at it and then at me, sitting on the bed. I brush my lips against her knuckles before I drop her hand. "I'll see you later Cody."

"You too."

I watch her leave and she gives me a wave before the door falls shut behind her. I sit on my bed and think, still not quite sure why I decided to kiss her hand goodbye. I recount what just happened. Ok, seriously, what he hell just happened? Everything was going great, I had gone with the flow and I was heading towards makeout town with a certain Kimberley Jones, and then the door suddenly gapes open. I wanted to yell at Kieran and tell him he had the worst timing ever, but all that faded, because next to him stood Mel, who easily masked the split second of surprise I saw on her face. It's the second time she's interrupted a would-be kiss with Kim, but obviously not purposely.

I went over what transpired again in my head several times. And every time I did I would settle on to Mel, standing there, and I'd get the same feeling somewhere under my stomach. It was a feeling I couldn't completely define, but all I knew was that it bothered me. I rest my head on the back wall and close my eyes and visualise. I'm about to kiss Kim, and she's up for it. Door flies open. It's Kieran. Then it's Mel, looking between Kim and I. She leaves. Kieran gets his book. Kim leaves. And now I'm here. But it's Mel and her lack of reaction (or it's how she's expertly hidden any kind of reaction) that I keep coming back to, teasing me, haunting me. The way she looked between Kim and I, then at me with -- what? Disappointment? Happiness? Indifference? I repeat the sequence of events in my mind. What is it that's niggling at me, this uneasiness that's residing in the pit of my gut? It is only after the fiftieth time I've relived what happened that I locate what it is that I'm feeling. My eyes fly open at the realisation. It's guilt.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you to the regular readers for your continued support. I know that this took so long to update, but apart from dealing with finals, a virus wiped the original chapter and so I had to re-write it all. Believe me I wanted to throw my laptop against the wall. So, unfortunately, I don't think it's as good as the original, but I hope you enjoy this installment anyway. Hopefully I'll be able to update at much shorter (or at leas regular) intervals now that I'm on break. Loved it? Loathed it? Was there a particular part that bothered you? Review! :)


	11. 10

**WARNING: **There is brief description of marijuana use in this chapter.  
**  
10.**

**MELISSA** I am watching Clinton eat. Big mouth chewing a chicken-tuna sub as he reads one of our texts for Chem. He turns a page and continues to read thoughtfully in between stuffing that giant orifice of a mouth of his with more chicken and tuna. I have never been interested by humans eating before but Clinton is a rare specimen of humanity. He looks up with half a lettuce leaf hanging over his mouth with crumbs framing the corners of his lips. He's holding his sub midair, ready for another bite, and he scrunches his brows and gives me a look as if to ask "what?" I shake my head and he shrugs, then he continues to read and eat. I, on the other hand, have not even touched my prosciutto, arugula, and bocconcini panino. And I usually love the panini at Campus Cafe. I continue to watch Clinton, absolutely fascinated by the way he's eating his sub.

"Ok, seriously Mel, what's up?"

"Huh?" I grunt, focusing on a piece of chicken balancing precariously on his bottom lip. I know I should tell him it's there, but I don't.

"Melissa, look at me," he literally spits, and the piece of chicken flies across the table and lands in front of me. I grimace and pull my eyes away from the piece of chicken to look at him.

"Sorry, what? I was watching you eat."

He smirks. "Well, I _am _a veritable model of masculinity," he says as he waves his sub in the air, before stuffing the rest of it in his mouth. "Humbled by my presence, no doubt," he continues, mouth full.

"Has anyone told you that you eat like a dinosaur?"

"You're funny," he swallows then cocks his head towards my uneaten panino. "Are you going to eat that?" I shake my head and he brings the plate over to him and takes a bite before he speaks again. "So what's on your mind?"

I frown, "Nothing, why do you ask? Nothing's on my mind."

"I call bullshit. Look, Mel, if you're worried about MCAT preps at the end of the year, they're just preps. They're not the actual thing. And your GPA is, like, over 3.5."

"No," I shake my head, "that's not it. It's nothing, don't worry about it. I mean, even I don't know what I'm thinking about. It's seriously nothing." I'm only sort of lying.

He doesn't look convinced. It was true, nothing really is on my mind. It was all just so curious. And, I pretty much knew that it was going to happen, anyway. So, what was it then? "Hey Clint."

"Yeah?"

"You don't happen to want to share a joint for the rest of the afternoon, do you?"

He grins, "Is it hot in summer?"

"What in the world are you talking about?"

He groans, "You're no fun. The answer was meant to be 'yes.'"

"Right."

"Come on, let's rock and roll." He stands up, picking up his bag with one hand, the other holding what was formerly my panino. "You coming?" I nod and follow him.

We make our way through campus, zig-zagging between the crowds of people busying themselves with whatever it is that they have decided to busy themselves with. As for me, my mind is still reeling from the afternoon before last. Perhaps reeling was the incorrect word for it. I was just a little surprised, really. Who am I kidding? It wasn't like I didn't know Jackson and Kim would eventually get together in one form or another. It wasn't bothering me, but I was just a little jarred, I guess. It was unexpected considering how Jackson had told me that he wasn't quite sure whether he was in a position or state of mind to make a move only a week prior. I didn't begrudge Kim or Jackson anything, or for whatever reason. In fact, why would I begrudge them anything in the first place? It was odd.

Clinton is chatting about something concerning some physics exam that he has soon, and how a joint would totally help him loosen up, then he segues in to a story about a mutual friend of ours, Mark. He is completely unaware to my non-responsiveness. I oblige him a few absent nods, but he doesn't realise I am not engaging with him in any form of conversation.

"... and then, suddenly, there's this creaking on the roof, and the next thing I know there's Mark, on the counter in front of me as I'm about to pay. He's barely missed the cash register, _and_ he's completely squashed my burger. I look up and there's a giant hole in the roof where he fell through."

We've arrived at his room and he unlocks it as I answer, "Oh really?"

"Yeah, it was insane. I can't even imagine what his back would feel like, but he just jumped up all fine, like nothing had happened and brushed himself off. Everyone in McDonald's was just staring at him, then he turns to me and says, 'Dude, I think we should leave.'" He shakes his head incredulously.

"So what did you do?"

He turns to me as he pushes the door open with his back, "We left!"

"Wait, you left, just like that?" I follow him inside his room and kick the door shut. "Even though you were basically the ones to blame for the hole in their roof?"

He nods, "Yeah, I mean, it wasn't my fault, it was Mark's!"

I sit on the ground and lean on his bed as he fusses around in his wardrobe. "What was he doing on their roof anyway?"

"Apparently there was a manhole in the toilet."

I'm flicking through the CDs stacked on the floor, looking for something we can listen to. "So he just decided to go exploring in the middle of his business?"

"Yeah, and guess where the manhole was?"

"Where?" I look up as he walks towards me, curious.

"The women's toilets." I laugh as Clinton sits next to me, throwing a clear, plastic zip-lock bag on the ground full of hashish, followed by a pack of skins. "Anyway, no one's called us about it. I guess no one was able to identify us. We just ran right out of there -- I think all the staff were just shocked. I guess we're not going back there in the near future. Which is a shame because McDonald's is all I can afford sometimes."

I shake my head, "It's hard to fathom that Mark is currently topping his civil engineering class, but is always getting in to all these kinds of shenanigans."

"Yeah, well, those brilliant types aren't usually all there, if you know what I mean." He begins expertly packing a joint and rolling it as I keep looking through his CDs. "He's a complete nut but he'll probably graduate valedictorian."

I murmur an inaudible agreeance. "Can I play this?" I ask him, holding up We Are the Pipettes.

"Sure," he tells me, licking the gum on the rolling paper.

Clinton admires his handiwork and I walk over to his stereo and insert the CD, scanning until I get to my favourite song, 'Because it's not Love (But it's Still a Feeling)'. "You know, you're really in to girly-music."

"Shut up," he replies with a smile, lighting the spliff. He takes a drag and hands it over to me as I sit back down. I take it from him and take a slow drag myself. "So," he begins.

I look over to him and hand him the joint. "So, what?"

"You know, I share my hard to come by illicit substances with you, so the least you can do is tell me what's on your mind."

My mouth slips in to a grin, "You're awfully good at bargaining."

"Honey, I have an arsenal of skills you don't even know about, so spill."

A laugh slips through my lips and I take the joint he's offering me, "It's nothing, it's just curious." I take a drag.

"What's curious?"

I hesitate. What do I tell him when I wasn't sure myself what exactly these thoughts and feelings were swimming around in my head? What did it all mean? Did it even mean anything? I shake my head, the hash beginning to affect me as I start to relax. I take a long drag and hand it to him, my tongue loosening. "I went to visit Jackson the other day and I think I interrupted something between him and Kim."

His face is impassive as he takes a drag, thoughtfully taking in what I've said. "And?"

I shrug, "And, nothing, it was just curious, that's all."

He leans back and settles his head on the bed. "Why is it curious?"

"I don't know," I take the joint from him and smoke some more. There's a pause as I attempt to grope for the words in my head to describe the curiosity of Jackson and Kim. I realise I still can't explicate what this curiosity is. "I don't know," I repeat feebly and hand him the joint.

"It makes sense. She's obviously in to him and, judging from this, he's in to her. He's pretty much a dreamboat. I don't blame her." A beat. "Or him," he adds.

I smile. He just confirmed what I had been suspecting for a while. I could completely deflect the attention away from me and call him up on it, but I decide to cut him some slack and say instead, "You think he's a dreamboat?"

He pulls the joint away from his mouth with a smile, blowing the smoke in to the static air of his room. "Hey, if I were drunk, I wouldn't say no. I'm just putting it out there." It's a very listless afternoon. If there's one thing Clinton is good for it's someone to talk to, and I decide to take advantage of this opportunity. It's not like I could say any of this to Kim without her completely being noble about it all and backing off, because I don't necessarily want her to back off. There was no need for her to back off. I want them to get together. So what's my problem, then?

"I don't know, I can't seem to find the words to explain what's going on in here." I tap my temple with my forefinger and take the joint from him. After taking what looks to be the final drag, I hand it over to him to finish off. I exhale, watching the thin tendrils of smoke ascend to the roof. I was just the right amount of buzzed. "When I saw them there, together," I swallow then continue, "I couldn't help but be surprised. And, I know I shouldn't have been because I saw it coming." In truth I only saw it half-coming. After the conversation over gelato with Jackson I was, in a manner of speaking, _relieved_ he might not pursue Kim. But, why? Why was I suddenly becoming territorial over him? I had no right. On the other hand I wanted something to happen between them. I _wanted _them to get together.

"So, what? You don't think they should get together?"

I shake my head, "That's not what I'm saying."

He rolls his head on his shoulder to look at me. "Then what are you saying?" He inquires with a tip of his eyebrow.

I look at him then down at my hands. I realise he can't completely understand what might be going on in my head if he's not privy to my history with Jackson. After all, how can one really make an assessment of the relationship between two people, what might make them tick or think a certain way, without understanding everything that came before it? I sigh, "You know Jackson and I used to go to high school together, before I moved to St Ben's."

"Yeah, I know, you told me."

I shake my head. It's much harder than I think to off load all my baggage on him. I debate with myself, trying to decide what information I should divulge, and how detail I should give my story. I've not told anyone about the island since I left Hartwell. When I first moved to St. Benedict's the rumours followed me -- whispers in the hallway, accusing eyes -- but I would neither confirm nor deny any of the stories. "There's more to it." Clinton doesn't respond. I wonder how he'll react to what I'm about to tell him. "It's a long story. Do you want the Cliff's notes or the annotated version?" I don't look at him -- I can't.

"The Cli--" he clears his throat, "the Cliff's notes."

I let out a breath and look straight ahead. Slowly I pull the ribbon undone from the mental box where I stored all the things I wanted to believe was long behind me. "I only knew Jackson in high school for a short amount of time, but that time was... _intense_." He doesn't say anything and I read it as encouragement to press on. No turning back. "Basically, we got stuck on an island, with some other kids, a school excursion gone awry. Anyway, we were there for about a month. We had to fend for ourselves." I expect a wisecrack from Clinton but it doesn't come, so I continue, still looking ahead, reliving the experience, like it was a movie I was watching being projected on his wall. "It was like Survivor without the camera crew, or the cash prize at the end. We were forced to mature on that island, and when we got off we were confused -- lost. Then all this other stuff happened. It was like existing on a faultline, neither adult nor child, and when things finally shook, well, we cracked. _I_ cracked." I stop. We sit in silence, the CD had already finished playing, and -- to Clinton's credit -- he didn't attempt to fill the silence with any words, knowing I wasn't finished.

"I ended up leaving the school, and I lost contact with them." I begin playing with a stray thread on my sweater, twisting it around my finger, undoing it, and then twisting it again. "Partly because I was forced to, partly because they were a reminder of everything I went through. When I saw Jackson again, everything just came back to me, in a complete rush, and I didn't know how to handle it. He was the personification of everything I lost -- my first love, that month of my life and everything that came after... my innocence. I guess, I don't know what he should be to me... whether he is anything to me. And I know, and I should... I should just suck it up, but without intending to he resurrected that piece of myself I thought had died. But I don't want to believe -- I can't believe," I can't finish the sentence, and say instead, "I'm just a little confused, is what I'm saying, I guess. His being here tells me that it all wasn't some dream. And I knew -- I know -- it wasn't a dream, but he forces me to believe that it happened, you know, that it," I swallow, and follow with a brief pause. "It happened," I whisper finally. And it hurts; it hurts because by saying those words out loud it is the first time they ring true.

I finally look over to Clinton with a sad smile, but his face is passive. He doesn't speak, and I'm a little confused at his lack of response. His face gives nothing away. Then it hits me; the knowing looks between him and Kim, the off-hand comments, his complete understanding of what I have just said. "But you already knew all that." He turns away and looks down. "How long?"

He faces me, "A while." I don't speak and he probably thinks I'm mad at him. "Look, Kim and I, we weren't purposely trying to deceive you, or anything, and Cody didn't mention anything. We were just being stupid and Googling, and--" he tries to explain.

"--I know."

"Mel, we didn't want to say anything until you were ready, or whether you wanted to speak about it at all. It wasn't our story to tell or bring up."

"I understand Clinton," I tell him. "And thank you for not bringing it up." I smile at him in reassurance; to let him know he's still my favourite Chem buddy. "How much do you know, exactly?"

"Superficial stuff, just about the island and what happened to that," he stops himself, gauging how I may respond to how he's going to finish the sentence. I already know what he's going to to say, though, "that girl." But it still stings.

There seems to be an unending silence generating between us. There's not much else to say but to resolve what it is that I'm here for. "So, Freud, what does it all mean, then?"

He smiles, he knows that I'm trying to lighten the mood. I don't want to dwell on the past, I want to know what it is I'm feeling in the present. "I think it could be one of two things."

"What are my options?"

"My analysis is that it stems from jealousy."

"Jealousy?"

He nods, "It's either, a) you're jealous that someone you have this history with, and with whom you should be close with, is forging a more meaningful relationship with Kim. It's understandable, I guess, based on what you've told me. He's one thing from your past you should be able to lay claim to. You're being selfish, to an extent, because you knew him first, and you don't want to give him up until you figure out whatever it is you need to figure out, then you can pass him on. You and he should have this fabulous friendship due to your shared experience, but it's hard for you to accept that you may no longer have that understanding between you two anymore."

I have to hand it to the kid, that made perfect sense. "And what's B?"

He shrugs. "Simple, you like him, you know, romantically."

I reject that notion, refusing to believe a schoolgirl crush would still exist after all this time. "I think it's A."

"Either way, even though it's probably not my place to say, but I'll say it anyway because you're my friend," I look up at him and he holds my eyes, "he won't fill that void you have Mel -- that's something only you can do."

I don't know how to respond, and I look away. I let his words sink in. I look back at him and smile. "You know, for a total egghead you're quite perceptive."

"Scientists have to be observant. There is a cause and effect for everything." He grins and shrugs. "Sometimes it's a matter of making something happen to see what will eventuate, and other times the only way to understand phenomena is to figure out the cause."

**CLINTON** Sometimes you don't have the right words to tell someone what they need to hear, either because you don't know what those words are, or because they need to figure it out themselves. I'm stuck in-between. After sharing what I imagine to be something very difficult for her to relive Mel's probably emotionally drained, and so I don't prod her for more information. I let her direct the conversation. She's still in my room, and she's telling me that the reason she went to Cody's room that afternoon was because she didn't have his cell number and she wanted to ask him whether he had plans for Spring Break, because she was thinking of going home for a few days, and he might have wanted to join her. I make a joke about all the debauchery she'd miss. Spring Break is for getting loose. She only laughs and tells me that she hardly ever goes home. Sometimes she even misses Christmas.

The enigma that is Melissa Wu has begun to unravel. I figure it's probably a relief to share some of that burden she's been carrying around. A lot of who she is -- the way she is -- makes sense to me, but I don't doubt there's more to her story that she's not telling. I want to be that shoulder she needs, but I suspect that role is reserved for Mr. Cody Jackson. It wasn't lost on me when she said 'first love.' I'm beginning to think that her reaction to him and Kim is a combination of A and B. I don't tell her that part of the reason I think she's reacting to this whole situation is due to her need to reconnect with him, to find what she thinks she's lost. I didn't lie when I told her that the only person who can fill the void she has is her, but it didn't mean that she would have to find a way to fill that alone. My thoughts wander off to Kim. I can't say I've lost, because I didn't exactly fight for her. I have come to the conclusion that my complete inaction has only hindered whatever it was that I wanted to happen with her. I guess I'm just not her type. I'm grateful to Mel that she didn't call me up on practically admitting I was crushing on her roommate.

After making some small talk and gossiping about people in our class, Mel says she should probably leave and I walk her to the door. She gives me a tight hug. She doesn't need words to tell me what she wants to say, and I return it. She thanks me again, regardless, for 'everything' before she leaves. After I close the door behind her I light incense to hide the smell of the hash and I walk to the window to smoke a cigarette. I lean on the pane and I see Mel walking out the front doors of my building. I also see that asshole Greg. I want to call out to Mel so she doesn't notice he's there, but I don't, and instead I silently observe as he uses his hand to flag her over to him. They meet in the middle of the front lawn and begin to talk. He looks to be asking her something and she shakes her head. He places his hand on her forearm and says something else. She looks down at her watch before her shoulders seem to resign and she nods. They walk off together. I can't help but shake my head.

* * *

**A/N: **So, the secrets begin to come out. Dun, dun, dunnnnn. It's only more drama from here. I'm not sure whether I pulled off Mel finally telling part of why she is the way she is. There are more pieces to put together concerning Mel and Jackson, I know, and it will come in due time. Please read and enjoy, and I hope you guys are glad for the quick update. I had a lot of free time and this particular part was very easy for me to write. Please review and tell me what you liked, or what you didn't. Do you think I could have done something a different way? Was there a part that seemed a little too melodramatic or unbelievable? Hated the whole thing and want me to get on with it? Hit that button, because reviews are my crack cocaine. As always, thanks for reading. ;)

P.S. I apologise if my description of the semesters are a little off. The university system in the State and in Australia differ. I tried to research it as best as I could.


	12. 11

**11.**

**JACKSON** It's close to four in the morning and Kim, Clinton and I sit on the roof of Hamilton on dilapidated deck chairs, having left some pre-Spring Break party at Henderson. From the roof of Hamilton it was easy to see the party still raging, a dull orange glow on the opposite end of the oval. The music and the crowd are a muffled thud in the air. Clinton passes me the bottle of Absolut which we're drinking straight because Kim forgot the Coke at Henderson, and we were just a little too lazy to walk back over to retrieve it. I take a giant swig of the vodka and allow the searing liquid to slip seductively down my throat. That sensation will never get old.

"We need music," Kim says out loud, not particularly directing it to anyone, and jumps out of her chair. "Be back soon!" Then she disappears through the fire escape. I hear the door slam behind her.

Clinton and I don't speak as we pass the vodka between us. I quite like him. He was the sort of guy you could hang out with completely chilled and without pretensions. He and Mel seemed to be close. It was quite evident Mel told Clinton things that she didn't tell Kim. I didn't detect any sort of romantic attachment from either of them, contrary to Kim's insistence that Clinton harboured a secret crush towards the Asian girl. Theirs was a purely platonic relationship, one of complete trust. I was jealous, but any bitterness I may have had I pushed away. I had no right to be jealous, and truth be told, the more that I had gotten to know Clinton the past couple of weeks, the more I wanted a bromance with him. Maybe it was Mel I was jealous of. I grin. I should probably stop drinking.

"So are they back together again, or something?" I finally say, still looking at Henderson. Mel was still at the party with that Greg fellow, who seemed to leave a sour taste in both Clinton's and Kim's mouths. I wonder what transpired between them. It was something Mel hardly ever touched upon. Whilst we were dabbling in to something that resembled a friendship -- albeit, one with a lot of history -- it didn't go beyond the superficial. It was weird knowing so much about her, but, at the same time, not knowing anything about her at all.

Clinton is slouched on the chair and he rests his head on his shoulder to look towards me. He shakes his head. "God, I hope not. He's just a cock. She deserves better." He punctuates this with a drink of vodka and he passes the bottle back to me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "He's just a cock," he repeats. "But, she's a big girl, and she can make her own decisions."

"What exactly did he do? You and Kim react to him like Harry does to Voldemort."

He looked at me and his mouth breaks in to a toothy grin. He begins to laugh, "Ok, wow, and I thought I was the nerd here."

"Shut up," I tell him. "You know what I mean." I'm smiling despite myself and take another drink before asking, "Why is he such a cock?"

He's about to say something but then seems to think better of it and says instead, "How much has she told you?"

"Not much," I settle the bottle between my thighs. "I just know they used to go out. That girl is a fucking Swiss vault. I can't get anything out of her. And I'm beginning to think it's her defence mechanism." I shake my head. "I want to get to know her again, but she's so different to how she used to be." I look at Clinton who is watching me quietly. "Sorry, when I'm suitably buzzed I get ramble-y."

"No, I understand."

I'm skeptical. "You do?"

He nods, and swallows, "She told me about what happened."

I'm a little surprised, but glad for it, anyway. It makes this sharing business easier. I slam down another gulp of the burning liquid and pass the bottle to him. "How much did she tell you?" He takes it from me and follows suits.

"Fuck, that's strong." He winces, obviously drinking a bit too much than a mouthful. He passes me the bottle. "Sorry, what were you saying? How much did she tell me?" I nod. "Enough, not in great detail, but enough to know that things were pretty fucked up. Like when she found that girl, god, that shit messes with you, you know?"

I nod, "Abby." He looks to me in question. "The girl, her name was Abby."

"Sorry, I didn't meant to be flippant, I know you knew her too."

"No, it's ok. After that I lost contact with her." I shrug, "She just disappeared two days later. No one knew where she went, most of us figured that she left because of that. It really was a screwed situation." I take another drink, casual, like it's become the water I need on a hot summer's day. I swallow then sigh. "I mean, how do you come out the other end of that fine? And I mean everything, the island, everything." I laugh bitterly, "And don't get me started on all the mess _I_ was in. Or everyone else for that matter. We should have had each other as some kind of support network, but, no. We were on shaky ground when we got back to, you know, civilization, but after Abby, poof! We all sort of split and dealt with it on our own." I pass the bottle to Clinton, realising I'm oversharing, but I'm on a bit of a roll. "I guess we considered each other emotional liabilities. When you're that connected with someone, through experience, or emotions, or relationships, or whatever, losing them makes it that much harder. And it's not like we were in any state to deal with other people because we didn't know how to deal with ourselves, you know? But I can't help but think it shouldn't have happened. Abby, Mel, any of it to anyone." I turn to Clinton whose playing with the neck of the bottle, listening to me intently. He nods, understanding. I can see why Mel was close to him. He let you talk without casting any judgement. "Sorry, I didn't mean for all this emotional diarrhoea. I told you, alcohol plus me equals ramble-y."

He takes a drink then nods, licking his lips. "You know, there's this Italian philosopher Giambattista Vico, and he said this about science -- the philosophy of science and knowledge, he said: 'The nature of things is nothing other than that they come into being at certain times and in certain ways.'" I sort of understand what he means but my alcohol addled brain tells me that he should elaborate. He must see the look of confusion on my face because he continues, "Science dictates that we should believe in the episteme, and our job is to find it -- this answer. All that we know contributes to our understanding of phenomena; because it's not a matter of whether things _should_ be a certain way, but that things _are_ a certain way. We don't fit our answers to a theory, we fit our theories to an answer. I guess what I'm trying to say, somewhat obliquely, is that things happen out of our control. Whatever happened -- to Mel, and you, and Abby -- happened. We can't change what _is_, but what we can do is describe it, make an inference as to what's going to happen next, and do something with this information we have." I nod, I think I'm a little bit in love with Clinton. He passes me the vodka with a half smile, as he finishes, "So, the question is, Cody, what are you going to do about this all?"

I look at him, wondering what -- or who -- exactly he's referring to. But I don't get to query his enigmatic question because the door of the fire escape opens and it's Kim with her iPod and speaker dock. "What's this? You two having a D&M?"

"Something like that," I grin.

She sits in the deck chair between Clint and I, then tosses the iPod and speaker dock to Clinton. "There, you can be Lord of the iPod."

"Sha-weet!" I can't help but marvel at the way Clinton effortlessly slips in and out of his perceptive scientist persona and the hash enthusiast. How did Kim describe him? _Dropkick brilliant_. Actually, Kim gushed about him quite a lot and frequently mentioned his and Mel's non-existent romance. My Spidey-senses are tingling. Or that could also just be the vodka. "How does everyone feel about MGMT?"

"Affirmative," Kim says before she takes a swig of the drink and holds it out for Clinton.

"MGMT it is," he says, placing the iPod dock on the floor before taking the bottle from Kim as he sits back up. The opening bars of 'Electric Feel' begin and Kim starts to shuffle in her seat, bopping her body and arms around. I nod my head in time to the beat and Clinton still sits slouched in the chair, nursing the bottle of Absolut. The three of us are still facing Henderson, each enjoying each other's company. Not needing to speak as we continue passing the bottle of vodka between us. I think about what Clinton said. What am I supposed to do? What exactly is it that I supposedly know which I should act on? It would have been helpful if he mentioned that at least. Right now I still have to find both an answer and a theory. This is why I dropped science in high school. I can see Kim beside me, peripeherally, in her own little world dancing around, tipsy, no doubt, but a happy drunk. Her energy is infectious. I turn to ask Kim whether or not she's heard of The Teenagers, but as I do I catch the last few seconds of Clint observing Kim in the dark with a soft smile, before he takes out his pack of Marlboro Reds. I turn away and take a drink. Odd.

The song finishes and the start of another begins. The music sounds familiar, but I can't completely figure out what song it is. It's an old song. It is when the voice begins to sing that I grin. I turn to Kim who is burning a bright red.

"Hey, Kim," Clinton begins as he tucks a cigarette behind his ear.

"Yeah...?"

"Is this Rod Stewart?"

She doesn't answer and Clinton and I begin laughing. "That's not even cool in an old school quirky kind of way," I tell her.

"Oh why don't you two put a sock in it and just enjoy 'Tonight's the Night'."

**MELISSA** I can hear their chatter even from the stairwell, getting louder as I get closer to the roof. I open the fire escape door slowly just as Clint finishes saying something and they all laugh. They are drunk, I can tell. I spy the bottle of Absolut they left the party with on the ground, empty. I grin, well aware that it had been sealed when they made their exit from Henderson. They are relaxed, loosened up by the grog, and loosened up by their comfortableness around each other. A pang hits me somewhere in my tummy as I realise that these three people are the closest things I have to a group of friends. I begin to walk up to them -- their backs are turned to me, as they sit facing Henderson. Kim must sense someone interrupting their space because she turns around. She grins when she realises it's me.

"MEL!"

"Hey guys."

Clinton stands up, "Here, have my seat."

"Thanks," I tell him, as he walks over to a stack of unopened deck chairs.

"So," Kim begins, "how is Gregory?"

"_Cock_," Clinton coughs unpacking the chair beside me.

I shake my head. "He's fine."

"How'd you know we were up here?" Jackson asks on the other side of Kim.

"Kim left me a note in our room." I smile, one that he returns. We hold contact for a moment before I pull my eyes away from him. "I see you guys finished the bottle of Absolut," I say, retrieving the empty bottle from the ground, and holding it up in front of me to admire, "good effort team, good effort." I put the bottle back down and settle in to the chair, listening to the music.

"Cody," Kim begins.

"Yeah?"

"Have you figured out what you're doing for Spring Break?"

My ears perk up. I had spoken to him about going back to Hartwell for a few days and extended an invitation. Well, it had been an invitation disguised as casual conversation about our planned movements for Spring Break. He hadn't gotten back to me yet, and I didn't ask.

He casually shrugs, "I'm actually thinking of visiting a friend of mine back in my hometown." Curious.

"Oh, hey, Mel," she turns to me, "aren't you going back home as well?"

I nod, "Yeah."

It's close to quarter past five, now, and I can see her face, confused. "So are you guys going home together?" She asks slowly.

"Uh, well, I was actually planning on visiting this friend of mine before I knew Mel was going home," Kim seems to nod and Jackson directs his attention to me, "but, uh, actually, I was meaning to ask you, Mel, have you already booked your flight?"

I shake my head, "No, not yet, did you want to book it together."

"Yeah, that would be kosher," he grins, and settles back in to the chair, slipping a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

"How about you, Kim, what are you up to?" Clinton asks from my left.

"Oh, um," Kim is still distracted by something (I had a pretty good idea what by) and licks her lips. She takes one final look at Jackson before she turns to Clinton and answers, "Angelique and I and a few other people from my film class are going to Montreal for a few days. Broken Social Scene is playing, so we thought it would be cool to go for a break."

"Sounds like a blast."

"How about you?"

Clinton shrugs, "I'll probably stay here for the week. I have these assignments I have to finish and I feel like sleeping. Besides, I have to work, anyway, and I can't get out of it."

"Boner," Jackson grunts.

"After you were teasing me the other day about going home and missing out on all the 'debauchery' of Spring Break, you're not even doing anything yourself."

He grins at me, teeth white in the early dawn, "No one said I had to follow through with whatever it was I was pontificating about."

"Well, I would propose a toast if we had any alcohol left," Kim says, "but, a toast to our respective, boring Spring Breaks."

Clinton and Jackson raise their cigarettes in the air in unison, like they are wine glasses. I shake my head. It is close to dawn. The sky is ever so slowly turning to purple from a midnight blue. Deep orange flecks tip the edges of the clouds in anticipation for the sun, and the next day.

"Hey Jackson," I say.

"Yo?"

"Who are you visiting at home?"

He pauses in thought before he speaks and faces me, "Lex."

I furrow my brows. I knew they had struck a friendship on the island but I had no idea that it would last for this long. _Let's face it, Mel, for all you know they had all kept in contact with each other. They all probably still talk to each other._ I shake my head -- of course. I was stupid to have thought they'd all break away like I did. I am jealous for it, and I can't help the wave of disappointment that settles in my bones.

"Who's Le --" Kim begins but she stops suddenly and begins tapping her toes and bopping her head. "Oh my god."

"What?"

She turns to me, eyes flared in excitement under her blunt bangs. "Oh my god, I _love_ this song." She shuffles around in her seat. I listen closely, trying to figure out what the song is. But before I can say what I think it is, Kim jumps up and begins miming the first line. It's 'Three Little Words' by Frankmusik. I can't help but grin. Clinton and Jackson are watching her amused and she begins to move in time to the synth beats of the song -- or, at least, attempts to. "It makes me wanna dance!"

We laugh as she starts kicking her feet up. "Come on guys, come dance!" She flicks her head from side to side. She is completely un-coordinated, but she absolutely does not care.

"You know, Clinton has an 80s dance that he does. And he looks like an extra in a Wham video clip when he does it."

Clinton looks to me in horror as Kim's eyes widen. I grin as Kim taps her feet as she walks over to him. She takes his hand and he looks at me with pure venom and says as he's being pulled up, "I will kill you."

"Dance monkey," I mock him. He rolls his eyes then starts to get in to it. The three of us crack up laughing. He really did look like he could be an extra in a Wham film clip. Kim starts shuffling her body up against his, the small smile that plays on his lips as they dance together doesn't go unnoticed by me. They start kicking their feet like Kevin Bacon in Footloose, gyrating their hips, and waving their arms. I turn to Jackson who is watching this all with amusement.

"You know, Kim," Clinton says, "I don't think these two should get off that easy."

Kim nods and says to an invisible walkie talkie in her hand, "Copy that sir." She struts towards Jackson who is watching her under hooded lids, lips curved in to a lazy smile. Clinton bounces over to me and takes both my hands in his. I look over to Jackson who's grinning. "When in Rome, or on the rooftop of Hamilton --" But he doesn't get to finish his sentence as he's pulled up by Kim's surprisingly strong arms.

I look to my partner who seems to have forgotten he was going to kill me and swings my hands around. I stand there immobile as Clinton shakes my arms. "Come on, if Kim, who doesn't have a single iota of coordination in her body, doesn't care then you shouldn't."

Their good nature and the irrepressible catchiness of the song finally convince me, "Fine," and with a skip I begin bouncing in time to the music. I can't stop the grin that splays across my face as we follow some impromptu choreography courtesy of Clinton, involving moves he refers to as 'the truck driver', 'shopping in a supermarket', and the 'wink and fingergun. He follows with a lick of his thumb before he draws it down his chest, also known as a 'Beyonce'. I am actually having fun and I forget for a moment where I've been and where I'm going, and instead I just enjoy the here and now.

I look to Clinton, face masked in complete seriousness, trying his hardest to perform to an audience only he could see. He pulls an imaginary string and looks up as if a bucket of water has fallen on him. "I call that 'the Flashdance'," he tells me behind his hand, before he continues to dance off in a world of his own, cigarette hanging off his lips. I grin and turn away, and I catch Kim and Jackson, still holding hands in the middle of what could only be described as a waltz on crack. I smile as he swings her and turns her in to a pirouette. They seem to have forgotten they have company, because he dips her and she giggles, then he whispers something in her ear as he brings her back upright, sharing a secret smile. There is something quite intimate about their tender exchange. I turn away as a seed of something I don't want to face is planted in my abdomen. I quell it, knowing it's too dangerous to accommodate those emotions.

"Partner switch!" Kim calls out and I push Clinton towards her, who catches him and mimes the words to him as if she is singing them to him, completely oblivious to the way he watches her, a look that speaks volumes to third parties about how much he adores her.

Jackson bounds towards me then holds out his hand. "Can I have this dance?"

I quirk my brow upwards and look at his outstretched hand. "There seems to be slim pickings tonight, so you're lucky."

"I can't argue with that." He takes my hand, pulling me to him, and twists me around so my back is up against his chest. I yelp when his cool fingers touch the bare skin of my arms.

We've been here before, dancing together, but it seemed so long ago, back when our innocence was still in tact. And as we begin to imitate Uma Thurman and John Travolta in Pulp Fiction -- as our laughter mingles with the music -- and as we dance under the brightening sky -- a soft shade of pink, slowly yielding to the powder blue of early morning -- something hits me: I have come to realise that here on this rooftop, in the quiet hours of this morning, dancing like a maniac to the musical equivalent of ADD, with these people, at this moment, I am free falling. And it is exhilarating. It's like the first time I've known how sweet a fresh breath of oxygen can be for a weary heart. It rushes through my lungs and through my bloodstream like a tidal wave. There is an unbearable lightness in each step and move I make. I look over to Clinton and Kim. His eyes radiate warmth as they follow her spinning and shaking herself around him, just slightly out of time with the beat of the music, using his body like her Maypole. But he doesn't care, because there is nowhere else in the world that he'd rather be. I turn to Jackson and he smiles and takes my hand, he has been observing me observing our friends. He interlaces his fingers through mine and holds our clasped hands over our heads, using it to spin me around like a ballerina in a jewelry box. After almost being asphyxiated with the overwhelming darkness of sadness I have come to the conclusion that I will live for moments like these, because there is nowhere else in the world I'd rather be either. And it is the happiest I have been in a long time.

* * *

**A/N: **I know, another quick update. I'm not a big believer in holding chapters hostage for reviews, so when they're done, then out they go. I'll let y'all in on a little secret: sometimes when I'm stuck with one chapter, I begin the next one. I find it gives me a break from the chapter I'm writing, and it also give me an idea of how I will get to that next point. I hope you guys enjoyed reading this. I have another chapter up my sleeves after this, but after that I won't know whether I'll be this quick to update again. Also, there is a chance that the chapter before this will be amended. I wasn't completely happy with it after re-reading it. As always please review, it lets me know whether or not I'm delivering. Criticisms are welcome too. In any case there are hints in this installment of what's to come. ;)


	13. About Last Summer

**About Last Summer**

To: daley marin (a) gmail . com

From: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

Subject: hi

Sent: Tuesday, September 15, 20xx

--

how are you finding your first semester of college so far? it's nathan, btw, if my e-mail address didn't completely give it away. i just wanted to say 'hi' and see how you're going. so now on to some useless information about me and what i've been up to, i realise i will be giving this information completely unsolicited. well, i've been here about a month now and no one cares that i used to be in the boy's scouts. (haha, see what i did there? it's a lame inside joke that pretty much died the moment i made it.) i'm rooming with a complete moron. he comes back to the room every night completely drunk and soaking up the "college experience". i want to tell him he's a loser but i think the arctic waves i send him telepathically when he's sober tells him what i feel about him. he's stopped trying to get me to go hogging with him, so i think he gets the idea. it's a little overwhelming, all this. hard to believe i'd get here eventually. now i'm here, though, i can't much think of where else i should be. hope you're doing well, in any case. i guess i just wanted to say hi. so, hi.

nathan.

--

To: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

From: daley marin (a) gmail . com

Subject: RE: hi

Sent: Thursday, September 17, 20xx

--

To what do I owe this honour? After a month and a half you decide to finally contact me. I'm glad you finally found the time to drop me a line. Though, why I expected that much is my own fault, because I should have known better. I'm glad to hear you're well, I'm doing fine also. A good-bye would have been nice before this out of the blue hello. But, again, I guess I'm foolish to have expected more from you.

Regards,  
Daley

--

To: daley marin (a) gmail . com

From: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

Subject: RE: RE: hi

Sent: Friday, September 18, 20xx

--

ok, i deserve that. but "regards"? ouch. again, my fault. look, i know i should have sent you something earlier, but everytime i went to write you an e-mail i'd just stare at the monitor, and i couldn't think of what to say, so i'd just leave it. then i'd come back the next day and i still couldn't think of what to say. actually, i have plenty to say, i just don't know how to say it. i've never been known for my skills in articulation. i owe you an apology for my douchebaggery. but do you know how many times i drafted that e-mail before i finally decided to just send it. that's what i mean. it's not like that e-mail is a stellar example of interpersonal communication.

nathan.

--

To: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

From: daley marin (a) gmail . com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: hi

Sent: Friday, September 18, 20xx

--

You don't owe me anything.

--

To: daley marin (a) gmail . com

From: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: hi

Sent: Sunday, September 20, 20xx

--

i do, i owe you an explanation, at the very least. i guess i just wanted to talk about last summer and everything that happened. it was nice, daley, to hang out with you again after all that time we sort of just stopped hanging out after... everything. i also wanted to let you know that my complete inaction doesn't mean i regret anything.

nathan.

--

To: daley marin (a) gmail . com

From: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

Subject: my last e-mail?

Sent: Thursday, October 1, 20xx

--

i was just wondering whether you got my last e-mail. look, daley, i think we can be completely mature about this all. i'm not trying to push anything. i'm not suggesting that you were either. last summer just reminded me how good things could be and i regret that we didn't use the time we had the rest of high school to capture that -- that we had left it so long, and too late. but i don't want to believe that it's too late. i understand, after the crash, after abby, after melissa left, after lex found out about the meningites, we were all a little confused. then eric just stopped talking to any of us all together, and pretended nothing happened. i just wanted to know how we got to that point where we became strangers. last summer reminded me just how incredible you are. and i regret that i didn't stick it out, that we didn't get through it together, and i just ran instead. it was easier to do what eric did and just push it away and get over it. and now here we are.

nathan.

--

To: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

From: daley marin (a) gmail . com

Subject: RE: my last e-mail?

Sent: Saturday, October 3, 20xx

--

I got your e-mail. I just wasn't in the mood to answer you.

Look, I didn't expect anything big from you, Nathan. Just because we slept with each other, it doesn't mean that I expected for us to start dating or anything. I wasn't waiting for your declaration of love, or fluffy white bunnies and for everything to be just dandy. But I did think that perhaps we could have reclaimed our friendship. At least that. And then you just leave for college, without even a) saying good-bye, or b) leaving me with the information to contact you. I don't think that was too much to ask for. Instead, I wake up the day after you _deflower _me, I go to your place, and your mum tells me that I just missed you and that you had left for college. I mean, what the hell is all that about, then? How do you think that made me feel? And then I don't hear from you for a month and a half. I'm not one to jump to conclusions, but I hope you realise how that would have seemed to me. But in case you don't, this is how it looked to have gone down: first, out of nowhere, we happen to bump in to each other at that seafood place. We begin hanging out on and off over the summer. The night before you go off to college we sleep with each other, the only thing is, you don't tell me that it's the night before you leave. Way to go, Nathan. You want to be all "mature" about this? Then all you had to do was drop me a simple, hello, or 'I had a good time this summer'. That's all. But, instead, you leave me stranded, not knowing what in the world what the last couple of months we spent together meant.

I'll be honest with you, Nathan, I had lots of fun the last summer. It was one of the best I've had in a long time. It seemed like fate had given us an opportunity to reconnect after two years of pretending we didn't know each other. And you just leave. I don't know what you want from me. I don't care about the sex. But I'd hate to think that you were just bored and the opportunity presented itself, so you thought you'd take advantage of it. You know, it would have been nice, if once in a while -- not just after last summer, but even after we all split up -- you had touched base.

Daley

--

To: daley marin (a) gmail . com

From: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

Subject: RE: RE: my last e-mail?

Sent: Monday, October 4, 20xx

--

it wasn't like that daley, but i see how it could have been construed like that. you know what it meant for me? it meant a lot. those afternoons at the beach, hanging out and going to the movies. it was a taste of what things could have been like if we hadn't all fallen out of touch with each other. i don't want it to be too late because i don't think it's too late. i know all i needed to do was drop you a simple e-mail, but i was incapacitated by my inability to say what i wanted to say without it getting all heavy. it was liberating being able to spend time with you without mentioning the island. a lot of the wounds have healed for me. and i'm sorry it took me so long to reach out to you again. i'm sorry for all that time i wasted. we were just kids... still are, so we still have time.

nathan.

--

To: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

From: daley marin (a) gmail . com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: my last e-mail?

Sent: Wednesday, October 6, 20xx

--

I want to know that you wanted to spend time with me, and still want to continue this semblance of a friendship not because you feel like you have to make up for lost time. I don't want to think about what we could have, or should have, done. It's passed. Yes, I wish things had turned out differently to the way it panned out. I understand how it is we got to this point. We needed our space. I had hoped that after the process of healing we could have, at least, stayed in touch. But when any of us passed each other in the halls we wouldn't bat an eyelid. The only two people who actually maintained some form of a relationship were Jackson and Lex. And I'm jealous and saddened it couldn't be the same case for all of us. I don't want to dwell on should-a, could-a, would-a's. I'm glad for what transpired over summer. But I don't want to do this if it'll just blow up in my face. I couldn't help but think that your sudden departure was just another notch on the disappointment belt. Don't do this if you can't maintain it. And I'm not asking for something intense. I'm not talking about an e-mail every second day.

Take care, Nathan.

Daley

--

To: daley marin (a) gmail . com

From: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: my last e-mail?

Wednesday, October 6, 20xx

--

so we've moved on to "take care" have we? this looks promising.

i don't want to make up for lost time (anymore). i want to create new times with you.

nathan.

p.s. how's lex going anyway?

p.p.s. how's college going for you?

--

To: nathan. mchugh (a) ucla . edu

From: daley marin (a) gmail . com

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: my last e-mail?

Sent: _Draft_

--

Sorry for the late reply!

Lex is fine, he's actually writing a lot. It was hard to say good-bye to him before I left. But he's a big kid, and he's got a surprising tenacity. College is ok, it's quite liberating to go somewhere completely anonymous, without anyone having these preconceptions about who you are and what happened. It's like a fresh start. In any case --

--

_**New Message from: NathanMcHugh**_

_**Accept?**_

Yes.

**NathanMcHugh:** hi!

**Daley: **I was actually just about to reply to your e-mail, I'm sorry it's almost a week late.

**NathanMcHugh:** that's fine. casual, remember?

**Daley:** Haha, yeah.

**Daley: **So, what's up?

**NathanMcHugh: **nm. i saw you were online and thought we could probably take this to real time

**Daley:** yeah?

**NathanMcHugh:** yeah.

**NathanMcHugh: **basically

**NathanMcHugh:** i just wanted to touch base.

* * *

**A/N:** I just wanted to say thank-you to my reviewers and readers thus far. I hope this gives further insight in to their relationships, how they separated, what happened to certain characters, etc. I don't know when I'll be able to update again, but hopefully soon. Enjoy and review! And Merry Christmas!


	14. 12

**12.**

**JACKSON** The flight is long; going from the Northeast of the country to the West Coast. We had taken a red eye, which stopped over in Iowa, and went on to California. I spend most of it writing my Honours draft as Melissa sleeps. I can't help but observe her now that I have a chance to. Her face is settled into a calm vulnerability. But there are still worry lines creased around her eyes and across her forehead. I want to smooth them out but know that it probably isn't in my power to do so… or my place.

I nudge her gently when we finally arrive. We have a bus ride from the airport to get to Hartwell where the Marins will pick me up. I wonder how Melissa will get home. She tells me that she hasn't told her parents that she's spending Spring Break in Hartwell. I wonder what's prompted her decision to spend it back home.

"Mel," I nudge her again. She stirs and she looks up at me under dark lashes. She brings the back of her hand to her mouth to cover her yawn.

"We here already?"

I nod gesturing to the empty plane. "I think they want to kick us out now."

She smiles and stretches. We stand up and retrieve our bags from the overhead compartment. We exit the plane and check out. There is already a Greyhound waiting for us that will take us to Hartwell. We don't talk as we throw our bags in the luggage compartment under the bus and climb aboard. We settle into our seats, and she's grateful when I offer her the window. She stretches and looks out the window before she yawns behind her hand. It strikes me that I can't stop looking at her. I pull my eyes away and lean back on the seat hoping to nap. It's two hours to Hartwell and I can't wait 'til I can get some proper sleep. After an all night flight, it's a bus ride that I do not look forward to at all.

"Jackson."

"Yeah?"

Melissa turns in her seat and directs her dark, soulful eyes towards me. "If you need a place to stay, you can stay at mine, if you want."

I actually want to take her up on that offer. "It's okay, I'm staying with the Marins."

"Oh right," she nods, "visiting Lex."

"Yeah."

She looks like she wants to say something else. After a pause she finally says, "How did you two get so close?"

"Oh, um, I," I shrug, "after what happened with Abby, then after you left, we all sort of split up."

Her brows raise, as if she's surprised to hear that had been the case. "Really?"

"Yeah, we sort of drifted. We were moving in different directions and coping in different ways."

"So how did you and Lex get close?"

I look at her. She is completely confused. It's then that I realise she has absolutely no idea. I always assumed that she and Daley had kept in contact, but it seems that she is completely in the dark. I want to ask her about her own experience, but I refrain, knowing we have time for that the rest of Spring Break.

"You don't know do you?"

Her brows knit in confusion. "Know what?"

"Lex got meningococcal not long after you left."

"Oh god, he got treatment, right?"

"It was triggered by his time on the island and didn't kick in until we got back." I swallow. "The infection had spread, he was able to get treatment but not before he…" I hesitate to finish the sentence. "Before his…"

"Jackson what happened?"

The bus lurches into movement and our conversation is momentarily interrupted. We hadn't even noticed the bus filling up. After a few seconds her attention comes back to me. "Jackson," she prompts gently, "what happened to Lex?"

"To stop the infection from spreading anymore than it had, he had to get his legs amputated."

"Christ," she whispers. She seems to sink into her seat contemplating what I've told her. I hate that I've added to her worry. "It doesn't stop, does it?" She looks to me again; her mouth settles into a grim line. "Everything after the island and getting off it. It doesn't stop. Sometimes I wish that we had just died there so we didn't have to deal with what happened afterwards. At least there we were in our own little bubble."

I'm taken aback by her words. They are sincere. It's the most she's ever said about our whole ordeal. I only nod, not knowing how to answer. If I said anymore, prodded her to continue speaking, I know that she'd close up and brush what she said away. So instead I settle back into my seat. She's looking out the window with a glaze over her eyes. She's not really watching the passing scenery, she's thinking, retreating into her head; hiding more things; protecting herself.

"Lex reminded me that whatever emo-ness I was going through at the time was only temporary, and not that bad. He never said that, but he was always the most well-adjusted out of all of us, surprisingly. He coped the best, and just being with him kind of helped me recover."

She looks at me and a ghost of smile graces her face. And in a moment of clarity, I understand completely how lonely it must have been for her, not being able to open up about it to anyone; just repressing it all. She turns back to the window and I look at her hand resting on the armrest between us. My fingers crawl towards it and take it in mine, soft and smooth. I rub my thumb on the back of her hand and thread my fingers through hers. I wonder if I've overstepped the imaginary boundary that seems to exist between us; but she doesn't take her hand away and recoil from me like I expect her to. After a few moments I feel the briefest of squeezes; and it makes the next two hours just that much more bearable.

**LEX** I can't _really_ put my finger on it but something's up. I know it. Something's totally _up_ between them. They're sitting in front of me like nothing's going on, but there is. You don't get to my age, having being through what I have, and being, well, as clever as I am, without being perceptive. I saw how she politely hid her surprise when she saw me leaning on my cane when they alighted the bus. Melissa had taken a cab home and my parents and I took Jackson back to the house. But for all my prodding of Jackson he was completely mute on Mel, only telling me briefly how they had bumped into each other at college.

"So your roommate is in the same class as Jackson?"

We're having dinner now and Mel nods. "It was a big surprise when I got back to my room and he's there sitting on my bed."

"You guys hang out a lot?"

They look at each other and seem to shrug. "Intermittently," Jackson says between mouthfuls of pasta. "I mean, I think I hang out more with Kim."

"And Kim is your --"

"Roommate," Mel answers me.

"Right," I nod, and poke the pasta with my fork. "So, what's it been like rekindling your ro --" I see Jackson looking at me sternly and choose a different tact, "-- friendship."

"Okay, I guess, it's kind of like we've started again," Mel says. "I mean, where else could we really go from? There's not much to talk about."

I want to ask her whether there's isn't much to talk about or she just doesn't want to talk about _it_. She's doing it now -- ignoring questions I know she wants to ask (the giant elephants in the room) in favour of whatever it is she's doing. I think repressing is the right term for it. For one thing, I've got prosthetic legs, why doesn't she ask me how it happened? I know Jackson's probably told her about the meningococcal -- but probably not in great detail. I'm not quite sure whether she doesn't ask me about my legs because of politeness or because she knows it'd just open up a whole can of worms. It's a little selfish of her, I decide, because maybe _we_ want to talk about it but don't because we don't want to push her into opening up about something she obviously doesn't want to open up about. I have many questions about why she disappeared all of a sudden but I can't ask her. I'm a little frustrated. The Melissa Wu I knew would have taken the opportunity to clear the air. As dinner continues, it becomes very clear that _that_ Melissa probably doesn't exist anymore.

"So, you're doing pre-med?" I ask Mel.

She nods, "Yeah, I do my MCAT at the end of the year, so I'm keen to do well in that."

"I wish you luck and all that jazz."

"How about you, what do you want to do with yourself?"

I shrug and smile, "I don't know. I'm only -- what? -- 15. But I think I might want to get into engineering."

"Oh -- what kind?"

"Structural and civil, maybe, but bio interests me too." I nod down to my legs, to underline why biomedical engineering interests me. It's my prompt for her to ask me more about it, but she simply smiles and takes a drink from her glass of water. "How about you Jackson, what kind of job will being a film major get you?"

He grins and shrugs, "I don't know, film critic, hopefully. But, my first job will most likely be the production assistant, a.k.a. the set gimp."

Mel and I laugh and she asks, "What's your ideal job, though?"

"Oh, film critic, but I'd like to be a writer -- you know screenplays."

"I always thought you'd end up being a musician or something."

"That's definitely on the cards, but very doubtful. It's just a good hobby and a good way to earn some extra cash."

I look between them as they converse. "You're very good, though. The shows I've seen you do, you're talented."

They hold eye contact before Jackson says quietly, "Thanks Mel." He brushes something off her cheek tenderly and seems to hold his hand there just a fraction of a second longer than what would be considered platonic, before he drops his hand. I feel like I'm intruding in on a private moment and clear my throat. I think it's time for me to leave them some time together. They look up at me a little embarrassed and I smile.

"I think I should get home, I have school tomorrow."

"Oh, sure," Jackson says, and waves one of the waiters over for the check.

I can see they don't particularly want to part ways yet -- at least, Jackson doesn't and so I add, "But you guys should stay out. Don't let me cut your night short, seriously, you're on Spring Break."

"There's not much to do in Hartwell," Mel grins.

"Seriously, I think you guys need to talk anyway." There. I said it. Now talk.

They look at each other and Jackson shrugs, "I can you drop you off home."

Mel shakes her head, "No, I think I want to stay out."

Jackson nods, and I'm secretly pleased. I expect Jackson to tell me what exactly is going on between them and what happened to the Melissa Wu I knew.

**MELISSA** The car is quiet. We've just dropped off Lex at home and are on our way to buy ice-cream. He turns on the radio and we listen to Ladyhawke.

"So, Lex has grown, huh?" He looks at me briefly before turning back to the front.

"Yeah, he's a good kid."

"He is."

A silence elapses again and I can sense him wanting to ask something. "What is it Jackson?"

He grips the steering wheel but he's not angry. He doesn't face me when he speaks, and his voice is gentle, "You're never going to talk about it are you, Mel?"

I know what he's referring to. I've been playing dumb for so long, it's become second nature to me. But maybe I needed to shed my shell. "It just hurts, Jackson. Because I think about Abby and then what happened with me, and I just tried so hard to forget it all. And I had -- but then I see you and it comes rushing back, and it's like I'm back there again."

"The island?"

I shake my head but I know he doesn't see me. "No, the girls' toilets and her… hanging." It's something that I can't escape. The image has burned itself behind my lids.

"Fuck, Mel, I'm sorry."

I wave him away and look out the window. "It's not that, it's a lot of things. And you guys, you had each other as a support system however small or disparate you became. But me? I had no one." I pause, wanting to say many things but nothing at the same time. "I mean, I never got to say goodbye, Jackson. The last time I saw her was under a white sheet." I wonder if he thinks I'm dead inside because I say this all so emotionless. But it's easier like that.

He doesn't respond and just keeps driving. The clouds are rolling above us and I sense the impending storm outside, and in me. I know we're not going to the ice-creamery anymore. I already know it. He doesn't need to say it. I'd lived in Hartwell for 16 years and I still have the blueprint of the town imprinted in my head. The direction he's heading for -- I know where he's taking me. No words need to be said. But it doesn't stop the uneasy anticipation in my stomach, threatening to manifest itself into emotions I don't want to deal with and had become so good at hiding.

When we drive down Cooper St. I can't stop the beating in my chest -- my heart hammers a loud drum roll against my ribs. I blink a few times, focusing on continuing to repress the memories I had succeeded in doing so for so long. It is unrelenting, however, and when we drive through the giant wrought iron gates of the cemetery the adrenaline rips through me, moving from my heart through my body and to my lips, which are quivering, as I stubbornly swallow back the choke in my throat. I try to breathe evenly but it's no use. And when the car finally stops, I look straight ahead, paralysed with a sudden wave of sadness. I make no move to unbuckle my belt even as Jackson exits the car.

He startles me when the passenger side door opens. And he's standing there, looking down at me sympathetically. I look up at him helplessly, but he knows I need this. He offers his hand to me. I look down at it like it's a foreign gesture -- someone reaching out -- but I force my shaking hands to push the button of the seatbealt to release me from my seat. But it doesn't stop the air around me -- which has become so thick -- from strangling me. I will myself to take his hand with my own, and he slowly closes his fingers around it and firmly guides me out of the car. He shuts the door with his free hand and looks at me, face to face, toe to toe. I am naked under the gentle caress of his eyes. I nod, indicating that I'm ready; knowing that if I spoke it would only release the torrent of emotions. My mouth is a metaphorical floodgate. He returns the nod and begins to walk, tugging me gently after him.

The sky is heavy over our heads, threatening to cast us under an unyielding shower of rain. His walk quickens, now, his steps are filled with familiarity. He's been here many times before. My ears are fuzzy. My eyes begin to water and I hiccup. There is nothing but white noise, as my surroundings melt into each other, grave stones passing by me with a blur. He picks up his pace, and my legs move under me, following his measured strides. I am struggling to breathe. Tears begin to fall but I shake my head. I wipe the wetness from face with the balls of my hands. It's not me, I tell myself stubbornly, it's just the rain. His grip tightens, and it is enough pressure to break me, because I begin to cry; hopelessly; desperately. As if the clouds have heard me break, they break too.

We're almost running but I don't know if it's to escape the rain or because there is a sense of purpose. And then I see it. I want to wail. I want to scream. I want to yell, "Fuck you!" as my body shatters. I am falling to pieces and it is only Jackson's hand that keeps me from drowning in my overbearing grief. I am hiccupping, sobbing, and it hurts so fucking much. When we finally stop at her lonely gravestone I fall onto my knees and just cry. _Oh Abby_. I draw my hand against her engraved name. My body is wracked with helpless sobs. The rain and tears blur my vision. My chest hurts and I can barely breathe. I think this is what it feels like to have your heart break. I forget Jackson is there and I sit down next to her and draw my knees to my chin as I bury my face in my arms.

"I'm sorry," I tell her outloud. "I'm so, so, sorry Abby." _I'm sorry I never reached out to you. I'm sorry I let you die. _

I look up to Jackson who is watching me with a pained expression on his face. His hair is matted against his head. Neither of us care that we are soaked to the bone. He kneels in front of me and coaxes me to stand up. "It's not your fault, Mel." I shake my head but he takes me by my chin to look at him. "It's no one's fault, Mel," he whispers fiercely; the crack in his voice betrays his own sadness and guilt. He's trying to convince me, but I know he's also trying to convince himself. We're all complicit in her suicide.

I shake my head and I don't answer. He draws me to him roughly and hugs me. I bury my head in the crook of his neck and cry freely. His hand rubs my back soothingly as I claw at him like he is my only lifeline. I pull my head away, my tears abating only slightly. I want to speak but can't. He rests his forehead against mine as I flush my body against his, closer, safe in his arms. I have stopped crying now and close my eyes, but stray tears continue to roll down my face. "I didn't even say goodbye," I say to no one in particular, echoing my earlier sentiment.

I feel his lips softly brush against the corner of my eyes. I don't move. "Don't cry, Mel." He kisses my cheek. "Please don't cry, Mel." His voice rumbles against my chest. Then his mouth finally descends on mine and I respond. He pulls me closer to him, and with his hands at my jaw he pilots my head to fit with his. I grip on to his waist, and run my hand up his neck and through his wet hair. I don't know what it is but we are feeding off each other hungrily. We pull and tug with our lips, our teeth, with a desperation that scares me, like I will explode; needing him right now more than air. It is familiarity. It is comfort. It is longing. And we stand there exchanging hot kisses in the April shower, finding solace in each other's arms, in his lips, because he feels like home.

* * *

**A/N:** So much drama! Sorry for the long hiatus. My schedule has not permitted me to write much of this story, unfortunately, considering I'm so close to finishing it. But I hope you enjoyed this instalment. Hated it? Loved it? Let me know.


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